Reset
by J. Roddam
Summary: In each universe, in every reality, his soul leads him to her.
1. Chapter 1

The sound of waves breaking on the beach is hypnotic, and Patrick Jane lets himself succumb to its lullaby. He closes his eyes, timing his breaths to the tide, still feeling the warmth from the falling sun's rays.

A seagull squawks overhead, and Patrick sighs. His tie suddenly feels too tight, and his fingers pull quickly at the silk, loosening it. He slips his suit jacket from his shoulders and sets it on the railing in front of him, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves. With another deep breath out, he runs a hand through his hair, disrupting the style he'd spent a hour perfecting this morning.

Patrick leans against the railing, looking out past his property to the ocean beyond. It stretches farther than his mind can comprehend.

He scrubs a hand over his face. _What the hell am I doing?_

It'd been so easy at the beginning. He'd don his three piece suit of armor, put on his mask, and that was it. The cons had been as natural as breathing.

But today...today he'd felt guilt for the first time.

 _Guilt is for marks_ , he hears part of himself say.

He bows his head.

 _But being a mark would feel better than taking advantage of one._

He pulls out his phone. His assistant picks up on the first ring. "I'm taking a vacation," he says curtly. "Cancel my engagements for the next week."

He has a feeling it might be longer than that, but he'll cross that bridge when he gets there.

Patrick doesn't wait for his assistant to answer before he ends the call, and he tosses the phone on the chair next to him.

 _What the hell am I doing?_ he asks himself again. _I wanted to escape that life, but all I ended up doing was getting in deeper._

He shudders. He will _not_ become his father. He is stronger than that. _Better_ than that.

The sun sinks, staining the sky and the sea with pink and purple, and the doorbell chimes from inside the house. Straightening up, Patrick heads indoors, not bothering to close the screen behind him. He strides to the front door, where he sees the outline of an unexpected visitor waiting for him.

He opens the door.

A petite, ebony-haired woman with piercing jade eyes stares back at him, her expression fierce. She's wearing a black leather jacket, no-nonsense boots, and she has a gun strapped to her hip.

She's also heavily pregnant.

"I'm sorry to bother you at this hour," says the woman before Patrick is able to gather words to greet her. "I'm Agent Lisbon with the California Bureau of Investigation." She holds up a badge.

Patrick arches a brow, feeling his heart echo against his ribs. "Never heard of it."

The woman looks like she's restraining herself from rolling her eyes.

Patrick grins. "You must get that often," he says.

This gets a smile out of her. "You have no idea." She tucks her badge away. "I'm working on a case in the area, and one of my tires blew out. I'm having a hard time getting cell service to call a tow."

Something about the woman's voice intrigues Patrick, and he shifts, inching slightly closer. "Do you have a spare?"

She nods, placing a hand over her abdomen suddenly. Pain flashes across her face, but she hides it so quickly Patrick wonders if he'd really seen it at all. "I'd change it myself," she says, "but I'm due in two weeks."

Patrick narrows his eyes, studying her face. And there it is again, this time more obvious than before: she winces then shifts, clearly uncomfortable.

"You sure about that?" asks Patrick, raising an eyebrow.

Agent Lisbon looks affronted. "Of course," she says authoritatively.

Patrick relents, letting it go. "I'll change the tire," he offers. He steps back, holding the door open for her. "Come in while I grab a few things."

The woman immediately protests. "I don't want to put you through any trouble," she says.

Patrick smiles at her. "I'm intimately acquainted with trouble, and you are the opposite of it, believe me," he says, and Agent Lisbon steps inside. "Wait here for a few minutes. I'll be right back."

He steps into his shoes, lacing them quickly, and heads to the garage, picking up a few miscellaneous tools and a flashlight. A minute later, he joins Agent Lisbon in the entryway, opening the door for her. "After you," he says.

"Thank you again for your help, Mr…"

"Jane," Patrick supplies. "But you can call me Patrick."

"Patrick," Agent Lisbon corrects. "Thank you."

"Like I said, the opposite of trouble," he says. He follows her down the drive, and they turn left onto the road by his house. Patrick glances at his new companion. "Must be an important case," he says conversationally.

Agent Lisbon looks at him from the corner of her eye, and he knows he's spot on.

"You're almost at your due date. Forgive me for asking, but wouldn't most law enforcement agencies have you on desk duty?"

She looks annoyed for a second before she hides this, too, returning to her curt, professional demeanor from before. "Strictly speaking, I'm doing this investigation off the books." They approach her mustang, its back left tire clearly out of air. "Hence why I don't have my standard issue SUV. They brought someone on to replace me last week for my maternity leave, so I figured I might as well use the time to get something done."

Patrick studies her face for a few more seconds in the fading light. "Personal ties, then?" he asks. "Something that precluded you from investigating officially?"

She deflects. "What exactly do you do for a living, Patrick?" she asks, sending him a look of half-irritation, half-intrigue.

"I'm currently between jobs," he says shortly, not wanting to think about it.

Agent Lisbon nods and opens her trunk, showing him where the spare tire is located. Patrick sets his tools aside and lifts the tire out. As he begins to prep the car to switch the tires, he decides on a less forward line of questioning.

"What exactly do you do for a living, Agent Lisbon?" he says, mimicking her tone from earlier.

She smiles briefly, and he gets the feeling that it's usually a rare occurrence.

"I'm a homicide detective," she says.

Patrick freezes.

She laughs at this. "Yeah, I get that a lot, too. It's strange, I know."

She winces again, clearly trying to hide it better than she had before.

Patrick stares at her for a second, debating whether to say something. Deciding to follow her lead, he shakes his head and kneels to begin work. "No," he says instead, turning his attention to the car. "Not strange. Impressive is more like it."

Agent Lisbon looks down at him, curious. "I don't get that very often," she says quietly.

"You should," Patrick says, fiddling with the deflated tire now that the car has been stabilized. He looks over at her. "Did you always know you wanted to become a cop?"

She shrugs, moving the flashlight slightly so he can see more clearly. "I knew I wanted a purpose. I found my purpose with the CBI."

Patrick grunts as he removes the tire, and he reaches for the spare. "I think that's what I'm looking for," he says, and once he starts talking, he can't seem to stop. Something about this woman makes it easy to share his secrets with her. "What I do - what I _did_ ," he corrects. "It's not that different from what you do. Except it's actually worlds apart."

At this, Agent Lisbon laughs. "I'm not sure I understand."

"I read people," says Patrick. "I try to find the truth. But it's for selfish purposes. I try to use that truth for my own good, not the greater good."

Agent Lisbon leans against the mustang. "It's never too late to change," she points out.

Patrick tightens the spare tire, considering this. "I'm not sure I know how."

She smiles. "You seem to be doing okay so far," she says, gesturing to the tire that he's fixed, and then to the space between the two of them.

Patrick stands up, wiping his hands off on his slacks, and looks down into eyes brighter than the sea. There's a damaged intensity there that he can almost but not quite decipher, despite how much he wants to.

"How did you know the case was personal for me?" Agent Lisbon asks quietly, and he can see himself and moonlight reflected in her eyes.

Patrick hesitates. His cold readings are rarely well received. But Agent Lisbon is a challenge he can't resist.

"You're about to give birth to your...first? Yes, first child," he says, lifting the busted tire and setting it in the trunk. He begins to clean up the tools. "You should be glowing." He softens his tone. "But you're grieving. You're in pain."

She looks away. "It's that obvious?"

Patrick shakes his head. "No," he says. "It's not." His brow furrows. "Your husband?" He pauses. "No - he was your partner." Agent Lisbon glances at him then quickly diverts her eyes again. "I'm sorry," Patrick says.

She doesn't acknowledge this. "We went through the academy together, then worked closely for a long time."

"He's the father," says Patrick gently, and it's not a question. Then, realizing the invasiveness of his words, he backs off. "I'm sorry - that was inappropriate."

Agent Lisbon gives him a sad smirk. "But it was right." She takes a deep breath. "He never knew about the baby."

Patrick blinks at the unexpected moisture in his eyes. He's not sure what to say - if there's even anything he _can_ say. Instead, he reaches out tentatively to brush his fingers against her elbow, marveling at this woman's strength.

The color suddenly drains from Agent Lisbon's face, and Patrick steps forward, gripping her forearms. "We need to get you to a hospital," he says, and a second later, she doubles over, clutching her abdomen.

"My water just..." She looks at him, incredulous. "Are you psychic?" she moans, and Patrick takes some of her weight to prevent her from falling over.

"Just paying attention," says Patrick, guiding her to the passenger side door. "Can I have your keys?"

"Right pocket," says Agent Lisbon, breathing heavily but appearing calm.

"The nearest hospital is about twenty minutes away, Agent Lisbon," says Patrick, opening the car door and helping her in. "You think you'll be okay?"

She grabs his hand. "Teresa," she corrects him, her jaw tight. "I think we've reached that point."

He grins. "Teresa," he repeats, closing the door gently and hurrying around to the other side of the car. He starts the car and pulls away from the side of the road, thanking the universe that the tire seems to be functioning properly.

"Is there someone you want me to call?" Patrick asks, glancing over at her as they make their way through the winding backroads. "A friend? A colleague?"

Teresa looks over at him, her eyes discerning despite the pain. "What did you just read off me?" she asks.

Patrick stares determinedly ahead at the road. "Your grief is new, but grief itself isn't a new feeling to you. So you've lost at least one parent." He glances at her. "Okay, both parents."

She leans her head back against the seat, closing her eyes. "Impressive," she says, quoting him from earlier. "You'd make a pretty decent detective yourself."

He has to grin at this. "Call me up to consult when you get back from maternity leave," he says, chuckling. In the periphery of his vision, he sees a shimer at the corner of her eye, and the tear rolls down her cheek. The brave, incredible woman sitting next to him is clearly terrified. Patrick reaches across the console, offering her his hand.

She takes it without hesitation.

When her grip becomes almost uncomfortably tight, Patrick realizes he's gotten in deeper than he'd intended. "Do you want me to stay with you?" he asks quietly. "No one should have to face this alone."

Teresa looks at him, her desire for independence clearly at war with some other part of her. "I don't want to put you through any trouble," she says again, this time wincing as another contraction begins.

Patrick squeezes her hand. "I know some biofeedback tricks that might help with the pain."

He can see her eyebrow arch even in the dark. "Are you ever going to tell me what you do?" she asks, breathing deeply.

He relents at this, mostly because talking seems to distract her. "I'm a conman," he says. "I make a living selling people lies." When he glances over at her again, he's more relieved than he expected to find curiosity rather than judgement in her eyes. "I pretend to be a psychic - you know, getting people in contact with their dead relatives, predicting their futures. I make it my business to know people, so I read microexpressions, body language, heart rate. Sleight of hand tricks like pickpocketing, too. Those kind of things help me figure out what people are thinking."

"So you're essentially a lie detector." Her tone is thoughtful rather than accusatory.

"That makes what I do sound much fairer than it actually is."

He watches as Teresa grips the armrest on the door, clearly in pain, though she doesn't verbalize it. Her thumb moves up and down across the back of his hand, and it occurs to him that she's trying to offer him some small semblance of comfort.

"You could try using your powers for good." She flashes him a wry grin, but a second later her right hand moves to cover her abdomen again.

"We're almost there," says Patrick as they approach the lights of the city. "Not going to lie, not having your SUV here is a missed opportunity. I could have turned the sirens on."

Teresa groans. "I would not have let you do that," she says.

Patrick grins, loving how easy it is to embarrass her.

They hit a couple of stoplights on the way into the city, but the traffic is mercifully sparse at this hour. Patrick pulls into the parking lot of the hospital, driving up to the entrance where he kills the ignition. He races around to Teresa's side and helps her up, and they walk through the door together.

An attendant spots them right away and brings Teresa a wheelchair. As he lowers her into it, the attendant offers to bring Teresa's keys to the valet, and Patrick pulls out his wallet to hand over a few bills and the keys.

Teresa grips his hand again, and Patrick doesn't have to ask what she means.

 _Stay._

So he does.

* * *

He doesn't think he's ever been so nervous.

Granted, he's never been overly fond of hospitals or doctors, but he also hates the idea of everything being out of his control. When Teresa grimaces again, Patrick stands up and leans over her bed, pushing her sweat-soaked hair out of her eyes.

He charms one of the nurses into scrounging up a spare hair tie, and he gently pulls Teresa's hair into a messy bun. She's remarkably composed, and Patrick wonders if years of dealing with murderers has prepared her for just about any obstacle life can throw her way. He wouldn't doubt it.

The doctor comes in and out of the room, checking the progress, but Patrick tries to mostly ignore the hustle and bustle of the hospital.

Eventually, Teresa turns her head toward him, out of breath, a bead of sweat trickling down her temple. "Are you any good?" she asks, and for a crazy second his mind goes into the gutter before she continues. "At sleight of hand?"

"I like to think so," he says, giving her a cocky smile.

"Prove it," she says, and he can't resist.

He spends the next couple hours running through every possible trick he remembers, some of which he hasn't attempted since his carny days. Eventually, she starts to ask how he pulls them off, and he teaches her.

After a particularly rough contraction, Patrick leans over to wipe her brow. She catches his expression, and her forehead crinkles. "What is it?" she asks.

He can't help but smile softly. "I've broken just about every rule of basic showmanship by teaching you how I do those tricks," he admits.

"How many people know your secrets?" she asks, sinking back into her pillows.

"Just you," he says, his voice low.

Teresa closes her eyes. "Could I ask you to teach me one more trick?" she says.

"Name it."

"You said something about biofeedback. Does that really work?"

Patrick moves from his chair to perch on her bed. "If you believe it will, then it does."

She frowns. "I'm not good at surrendering."

"Never would have guessed that," says Patrick, teasing, and her eyes flash open. He has to laugh at the glare she sends his way. "Trusting me hasn't led you too far astray yet, has it?"

That gets another small smile from her. "I guess not," she says eventually. Then she doubles over as another contraction hits, and Patrick holds her hand, helpless, as he waits for it to pass.

Teresa gasps and lets out a long breath. "Okay," she says, still breathing heavily. "I trust you. Just help me never experience that again."

It's trickier with her than ever before, Patrick thinks, perhaps because she's more resistant but also because the stakes are so high. Within the span of a few hours, the tiny, fierce detective in front of him has somehow become his entire world, and he discovers he's okay with that.

Eventually, though, she calms, incorporating some of his breathing techniques. When the next contraction hits, she squeezes his hand less tightly than before, looking up at him with grateful eyes. "Forget impressive," she says. "You are nothing short of a miracle."

"I try," says Patrick.

* * *

Hours later, he's begun to cold read the nurses who bustle in and out of the room as Teresa's contractions come at closer and closer intervals. She's skeptical at first, but then he makes it into a game, charming the nurses into divulging their secrets and proving him right.

Teresa squeezes his hand and tenses at another contraction. "It seems to me like the nurses will say anything just to get you to smile," she grumbles. "How do I know it's actually your powers of observation?"

"Should I try a male nurse?"

"Does your charm smile work on men?"

He grins. "Some of them," he says.

"Unbelievable," says Teresa.

At that moment, the doctor, a tall dark-haired woman with strong shoulders, walks in to check on Teresa.

"It's time, Teresa. You ready?" she asks, looking up at them from her place at the end of the bed.

Patrick feels Teresa's pulse skyrocket. He squeezes her hand and brushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Teresa nods.

He's terrified the entire time, feeling like Teresa is his rock more than he is hers. But he helps her breathe, holds her hand, wipes her brow, and murmurs to her, tremors coursing through his body.

And then, suddenly -

Patrick looks over as the doctor straightens up, cradling a new life. Teresa slumps back against the pillows, drenched in sweat, her lower lip dropping slightly.

Dazed, he watches as the doctor eventually deposits the wailing infant into Teresa's waiting arms. She just smiles, adjusting her arms naturally to the new weight, and Patrick watches them in awe as the sun creeps into the sky.

He'd been wondering what his purpose would be. Now, sitting in a hospital room with a spitfire detective and her new miracle, he thinks he's found it.

* * *

Patrick slips out of the room when Teresa falls asleep, her fingers finally going limp around his hand. He hails a cab to take him back to his house, and he collapses on the couch as soon as he walks in. A couple hours later, the glare from the ocean has lit up the room, and he wakes, disoriented.

A shower and change of clothes helps considerably, and he grabs his cell phone from where he'd discarded it the previous night on the deck. He flips it open, debating whether to call the hospital.

 _What does social convention dictate one do after meeting an incredible woman then spending the night by her side as she gives birth? How long does one wait to follow up?_

He decides to bring her flowers and balloons, a perfectly appropriate gesture. Wanting to catch her before she is discharged, he books it to his Citroen and retraces his route from the previous night to the hospital.

Stopping only to make a purchase at the gift store in the atrium, Patrick heads for the familiar room. "Is she awake?" he asks the nurse outside, who waves him in.

Teresa looks up as he enters, looking radiant as she holds her infant in her arms. The girl has a mass of dark hair like her mother, and Patrick smiles. "Hey," he says.

"Hey yourself," Teresa responds. Patrick sets the flowers down on the windowsill, and the balloons float toward the ceiling. "You didn't need to do that."

He ignores this. "How is she?"

"Do you want to hold her?"

Patrick finds he very much wants to, so he nods, stepping forward, and Teresa places the baby in his arms.

She smiles. "You're a natural."

"She's perfect," he whispers. "What's her name?"

"Elizabeth Jane Lisbon," says Teresa, matching his tone.

His eyes mist over. "Teresa…"

"'Jane' is a lovely name," she says, "for a baby girl. Or for, you know, a reformed conman." She smirks at him.

He chuckles softly, trying not to wake Elizabeth.

Teresa reaches up to touch his elbow. "In all seriousness, I don't know how I could ever repay you for...for everything you did for me and my daughter last night."

Patrick just smiles down at the sleeping infant in his arms. "My pleasure," he says. Then he looks over at Teresa, who's watching him with interest. "What?" he asks.

"You're in the market for a new job, right?" she says. When he nods, she continues. "Have you ever been to Sacramento?"


	2. Chapter 2

Patrick can count on one hand the number of times he's been rendered speechless in his life. With a start, he realizes that most of them have been with Teresa.

"Sacramento?" he asks, wide-eyed. "That's where the CBI is located?"

"The one and only," confirms Teresa. "I can't guarantee a job offer, of course, but I'd like to take you to meet my boss. I think you'd be a great asset to the team."

Patrick sits down in the chair by Teresa's bed, his thoughts whirling, and Elizabeth shifts in his arms. He coos to her, and she stills. Then he looks up at Teresa, hesitant.

"I know I joked about this yesterday, but are you...are you certain?"

It seems too good to be true, after all.

She scrutinizes him. "You're awfully insecure under that bravado you project to the world," she notes. "Look, Patrick. Yesterday you told me the life stories of no less than seven nurses, three doctors, and five nursing assistants - not to mention my own. And you were spot on for every single one of them." She raises an eyebrow. "This isn't just pregnancy hormones talking. You've got a unique skillset that could do the world a lot of good."

Patrick looks down at Elizabeth, raising a finger to brush against the soft skin of her tiny cheek.

"So, what do you say?" Teresa asks, and Patrick meets her eyes. "Come back to Sacramento with me. Let me introduce you to my colleagues, maybe observe an interrogation or two." She smiles. "Let's see what kind of trouble we can make."

Her grin is infectious, and he feels himself returning it. "You're on." He stands, still cradling Elizabeth, and moves to sit on Teresa's bed. "When can I spring you from this joint?"

"They want me to stay overnight." She looks annoyed at the inconvenience. "So first thing tomorrow morning?"

Patrick nods. "I'll be here." His mind is already racing, planning a trip to the store to stock up on things he knows she'll need but doesn't yet have stowed in her car. "Sacramento is a long drive," he says. "Would you be comfortable staying in my guesthouse for a couple days once you're discharged? I don't want all those hours in the car to put you in any pain."

Her eyes go wide in surprise at the mention of his guesthouse, and Patrick has to remind himself that Teresa doesn't know exactly how wealthy he is. He's suddenly self-conscious of the money, wondering why it had taken him so long to feel any guilt at all about charging clients hundreds of dollars per session.

"That's probably best," says Teresa, her voice a little high. "But really, I can just find a hotel - "

Patrick waves a hand dismissively. "You need a proper mattress, and you're not going to find one of those at a hotel. Plus, most of the rooms here in Malibu are probably booked."

 _And not within the budget of a state cop_ , he adds mentally. He'd offer to pay for the room if he thought there was any chance that she'd accept, but he knows this is unlikely.

"Why don't you call me tomorrow when you're ready to be picked up?" he asks. Instead of asking for her number, he offers to give her his, and she reaches over to grab her purse, typing his number into her Blackberry.

"Get a cab back here, and we'll take my car," says Teresa, and her tone tells him there's not room for discussion. "Oh that reminds me." She begins to dig through her purse again, and Patrick reaches over with one hand to stop her progress.

"You are not paying me back for the cab rides," he says. "They've been the best use of my money in a very long time."

"Smooth talker," says Teresa without missing a beat, giving him an amused look but putting the purse off to the side again.

Her new motherhood glow dims for a second, and he sees how exhausted she is underneath the wash of hormones circulating her body. "You need to get some rest," he says. "And I have a few errands to run."

Patrick leans over to set Elizabeth in her mother's arms. Unable to resist, he brushes a quick kiss to the corner of Teresa's mouth, delighting in the blush that colors her cheeks and the smile she tries to fight.

"Until tomorrow," Patrick says, and he steals from the room.

* * *

The next morning in the cab back to the hospital, Patrick texts his assistant to book a hotel room in Sacramento. A few minutes later, he gets a confirmation text, and he can't help smiling to himself.

The cab driver notices.

"That's a big smile for someone heading to the hospital," she says, glancing at him through the rearview mirror.

Patrick's not used to being on the receiving end of that look. He finds it's rather unnerving.

"My friend just gave birth," he blurts out, immediately wondering why he's decided to share this information with a total stranger.

"Oh, honey, that is _not_ the look someone wears when thinking about their friend. Does her husband know you're head over heels for his wife?"

Patrick's eyes narrow. "She's single, and I don't really see how it's any of your business."

The driver's eyes light up. "Well, this changes things!"

Patrick sighs.

They turn into the parking lot of the hospital, and once she's parked the car outside the entrance, the driver turns around to face him. "Don't let her slip away," she says.

Patrick hands her a few bills. "I don't plan on it," he murmurs, getting out of the car, slamming the door, and striding toward the now-familiar atrium.

He heads over to the valet and requests Teresa's car be brought around front, and three minutes later the familiar mustang rolls into view. He takes the keys from the attendant, tipping him generously, and opens one of the doors to the backseat, reaching for the infant car seat he'd spotted there two nights ago. It takes him a minute to figure out how to properly disconnect the seat from the base, his fingers fumbling for the right motions.

But then the seat comes loose, and Patrick bends down to grab the bag he sees at the floor of the car. He's guessing Teresa will want a change of clothes.

"I'm starting to wonder if you're not actually psychic," she says, clearly grateful, when he steps into her room, holding both the bag and the infant car seat. She looks down at the baby in her arms as Patrick sets the items on the chair. "Here, Lizzie, let's let Patrick hold you so Mommy can transform into a functional human being."

He leans over to cradle the baby again, and it's a welcome weight. He'd strangely come to miss it in the time he'd been away. "Lizzie," he says, testing the name on his tongue, but the infant gives no indication that she's heard him, continuing to doze on.

Teresa heads to the bathroom, and Patrick catches a glance at her bare back under her hospital gown. He looks away quickly, uncomfortable with ogling her without her permission, but not before he notices a smattering of freckles across her skin.

Suddenly, Lizzie opens her eyes, and Patrick freezes. They're precisely the same shade as her mother's. His heart nearly stops.

"Hi," he says, his voice high, and he just stares at her for several seconds. "Hi, Lizzie."

He looks up after a minute or so to see Teresa watching him, clad in clean clothes and leaning against the doorframe. Rather than her usual fierceness, she's looking at him with an expression he can only describe as _soft._

"You ready?" she asks.

"I sure am."

* * *

"Did you buy the whole store?" asks Teresa when he opens the door to his home to her, gesturing for her to precede him inside.

Patrick smiles. "Only the essentials."

Teresa walks into the living room, carrying Lizzie in her car seat and navigating the maelstrom of shopping bags that Patrick had tossed onto various pieces of furniture. Patrick hurries to clear a space for her to set the car seat down. She does, looking dazed.

"I assembled the bassinet an hour ago," he says, moving the bags in search of it. "It's somewhere around here. Ah, et violà," he says, removing the bag with a flourish to uncover the bassinet.

To his embarrassment, Teresa bursts into tears.

Patrick steps toward her, gathering her into his arms on instinct. "Hey," he says softly, rubbing a hand up and down her back. "You're okay. I got you."

She turns her face into his neck, grabbing hold of the lapel of his dress shirt with one strong fist. Her skin burns against his, and his other hand moves to stroke her hair.

"I got you," he says again and again, and eventually her breaths become more measured and even.

"I'm sorry," she says against him. "I just...I spent about seven months imagining walking over the threshold for the first time with Lizzie, thinking I'd be doing it alone."

Patrick swallows and holds her tighter.

* * *

Two days later, Patrick turns on the radio when they merge onto the interstate, glancing at Teresa in surprise when cool jazz flows through the speakers. "Excellent taste. I feared you'd be one of those cops who listens to whatever monstrosity is on popular radio stations these days."

Teresa grins as he turns the dial low so they can converse. "Jazz music is my escape," she says.

"Thanks for inviting me along." He nearly presses his foot harder on the gas to speed up to get around a car ahead, then he thinks about Lizzie in the backseat. He leans off the gas, slowing to just under the speed limit. _Plus_ , he thinks, _the slower we go, the longer the car ride..._

"What's your escape?" asks Teresa suddenly.

He glances over at her. "It's not so much a thing as it was an event," he admits. "I, uh...I grew up on a carnival circuit in the Midwest. Never went to a proper school, never had real friends. I was...miserable. As soon as I was old enough, I left and moved to where the money was." He taps his fingers against the steering wheel. "Guess that doesn't really count as an escape if I took the life with me."

"You're escaping now," Teresa points out.

Patrick smiles. "Yeah," he says. "I am."

"Did your carnival ever hit Chicago?"

He reads between the lines. "A fellow Midwest-transplant to California! What are the odds?" He watches her from the corner of her eye. "When did you leave Chicago?"

She slaps him lightly on the shoulder. "I asked you first!"

He relents. "Every year," he says in answer to her question. "Just think, we were probably within fifty miles of each other at various points in our childhood."

"Probably closer than that," she says. "After my mom died, I used to take my brothers to those things all the time."

"You're kidding." He can't hide the look of incredulity and wonder on his face. "Do you remember the names?"

She closes her eyes, clearly trying to access memories she hasn't thought about in years. "My brothers liked the one called _Razzle Dazzle_ ," she says. "My favorite was _The Greatest Show_."

Patrick's mouth goes dry. "I was the Boy Wonder on _The Greatest Show_."

Teresa gapes at him. "I tried to get tickets for that one year. It was sold out."

Patrick shakes his head. "Damn," he says. "If only I hadn't built myself such a reputation, we could have met _decades_ earlier."

"The universe works in mysterious ways," says Teresa. Things go quiet between them for a while before she speaks again, her voice tentative. "What we're doing - you realize this is crazy, right? Driving six hours with someone you've known for mere days?"

"It doesn't feel crazy," says Patrick, his tone matching hers. He lets that hang in the air for a while before he decides to break the tension. "Plus, you can shoot me if I try any funny business."

She giggles, and it is the best sound he thinks he's ever heard.

Then she touches his upper arm with a fingertip, and he looks over at her briefly.

"Do you think we were always supposed to meet?" She's quiet, barely audible over the jazz music, and she doesn't seem to want to meet his eyes.

He can't tell her he doesn't believe in fate, so he just smiles. "I like that thought," he says instead. "Okay, so now your turn - when did you leave Chicago?"

"I left to go to college here," says Teresa.

"You feel guilty about it. Why?"

She sighs. "It was a pretty selfish decision. I had to leave my brothers behind."

"You weren't the parent. How could you be expected to care for them?"

"See, that's just the thing - I kind of _was_ the parent." Teresa runs a hand through her hair. "After my mom died, my dad wasn't really present. He committed suicide soon after."

Patrick reaches over to take her hand. "That's...a lot to deal with," he says. "I'm sorry."

She shakes her head. "It's okay. This may sound horrible, but it was actually easier to deal with everything after he passed."

He interlaces their fingers. "He was abusive, then."

"He was an alcoholic. He had no idea he was even doing it." Teresa blinks quickly and takes a deep breath. "Sorry - I can't believe I just told you that. I hadn't even told…" She trails off, not needing to finish her thought.

Patrick squeezes her hand. "You did what you had to do to survive. I'm sure your brothers will understand someday."

She tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear and looks at him. "What about your family?"

"There's not much to tell," he says, shrugging. "I never knew my mother, and my father was a bastard."

"Are they still alive?"

"We're not exactly on Christmas card terms, so I don't know."

"And you don't want to know."

He lets out a breath. "Not particularly." He looks over at her. "That's what I was thinking about, actually, when you showed up at my doorstep. I want to be a better man than he was."

Teresa disentangles their fingers so she can reach up to tuck one of his curls back into place, and he tries to hide the shiver that passes down his spine. "You are a good man, Patrick Jane."

He automatically leans into her touch.

It's quiet for a minute, and their words from the past few minutes sink in. Teresa pulls her hand away, and Jane meets her eye. "That was…"

"Intense."

He clears his throat. "Yes."

"And yet neither of us are running away screaming," Teresa points out.

"The jury's still out on that. It's kind of difficult for you to do when the car is in motion."

She considers him, and he'd give anything to be able to take his eyes off the road long enough to study her and know what she's thinking.

"Being a cop means I've seen the worst of humanity," she eventually says. "And you may have your demons - everyone does - but you're choosing not to let them define you. You're choosing to rise above them. So what I said before stands: you _are_ a good man." She smiles. "I'll keep reminding you of that if necessary."

He's not sure how to respond, so he reaches over to take her hand again, and they fall into companionable silence for some time.

Eventually, a soft cry sounds from the backseat, and Teresa turns around to check on Lizzie.

"Would you mind taking the next exit? It's about time for me to feed and change her."

Patrick spots a sign for an approaching rest stop, and he pulls off the interstate, slowing down on the exit ramp and parking the car. Teresa gets out of the car and immediately reaches for Lizzie's car seat, detaching it, and Patrick grabs her go bag. By silent agreement, they walk side by side to the shaded picnic area, dead grass crunching underneath their feet. Teresa sets the car seat on a picnic table, reaching for a blanket from the bag and spreading it out. Then she picks up Lizzie, and Patrick smiles at the look of pure adoration on her face.

"I feel almost like an imposter," says Teresa quietly as she lays Lizzie down and begins to change her diaper. "I was watched like a hawk in the hospital with everything I did, and now suddenly I'm expected to be an expert on my own."

Patrick hands her a clean diaper and takes the soiled one, tossing it in the nearby waste bin. "No one's expecting you to be an expert," he says. "I imagine that comes with time and practice. And you aren't alone."

Teresa looks over at him, and her hair is tinged red from the sun. "No," she agrees. "I'm not." She looks down at her shirt and sighs. "I did not plan to be breastfeeding when I packed my bag for this trip," she laments, clearly considering her options.

Patrick guides her to sit down, shrugging off his suit jacket. "Here," he says, slinging it half over her chest. Teresa sends him a grateful look before adjusting underneath the jacket, then she reaches for Lizzie. Patrick places the infant in her arms, moving the jacket to cover where Teresa's skin will be exposed but careful not to cover the baby.

"This seems like second nature to you," says Teresa. "The way Lizzie just seemed to fit into your arms the first morning you held her, how you always knew exactly what to do or say when I was in labor…"

Patrick shrugs. "I like babies. They're full of promise and infinite possibilities. And I like you, too. That makes it easy."

He can't remember the last time he'd smiled so much. Maybe he'd _never_ smiled as much as he has in the past few days.

Teresa ducks her head, blushing again.

He reaches out to touch her shoulder, and she looks up at him. "You're already a great mother, you know that, right? It's my job to watch people, and I've been watching you with your daughter. I rarely see the look of pure love that you wear when she's in your arms. That's the most important thing, and everything else will work itself out."

Teresa nods, and a soft wind blows between them. He's close enough that her hair tickles his neck as it dances in the breeze, and this time he doesn't try to mask when he shivers.

* * *

They approach Sacramento as the sun dies, bringing a temporary respite from the heat. She directs him to her condo, and he pulls into the quaint neighborhood. After parking the car, he grabs as many of the bags as he can carry and follows Teresa to the door. She unlocks it, and they step over the threshold together.

He sets the bags down on the floor, squeezes her hand, and heads back to the car to get the rest of the bags. "Don't unpack these tonight," Patrick says. "I'll stop by tomorrow morning and do it myself. You shouldn't be lifting anything you don't have to."

"You're not staying?"

Her disappointment is obvious, and he feels his insides twist not unpleasantly. "I have a room booked already," he says. "If you need anything, call me, but I don't want to intrude on you in your home."

She sets the car seat down and picks Lizzie up gingerly, raising an eyebrow. "How is this different from you insisting I stay at your guesthouse?"

He doesn't want to answer the question, but Teresa guesses correctly without him needing to speak a word. She smiles. "Who said chivalry was dead?"

A car pulls up outside, its headlights shining in the front window. "That's my ride," says Patrick, leaning forward to kiss her cheek. "Sleep well," he says.

"Goodnight, Patrick," he hears her whisper as he closes the door behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

He texts her in the taxi the next morning.

 _Is Lizzie awake? I don't want to ring the doorbell if she's not._

Teresa's response comes a couple minutes later.

 _She's an early bird. Didn't get that from me, unfortunately._

Patrick feels a pang in his heart at the indirect mention of Teresa's former partner. He wonders, not for the first time, if she'd be willing to let him take a look at the case files he knows she pilfered from the CBI. Maybe he'd notice something, maybe he could help her get closure -

He sighs. He doesn't yet know Teresa well enough to predict how she'd react to such an offer. She may very well be grateful, but he could just as easily see her being affronted by him stepping over a line. Someday, he vows. He'll make sure his skillset appears irresistible to the powers that be at the CBI, land himself a position, and someday get his hands on those case files. He'll help her solve it.

The cab pulls up to Teresa's condo, and Patrick pays the driver before making his way up to the front door. It's an overcast day in Sacramento, but the heat is still oppressive, and he feels a trickle of sweat roll down his back.

There's movement from within the condo before he rings the doorbell; he can hear Lizzie crying and Teresa trying to soothe her. When the door opens, he immediately catches sight of Teresa's tired eyes, and he reaches out to take Lizzie from her.

"She's been up since 4:30 this morning," explains Teresa. "I assume this is normal, but she also didn't sleep for more than a couple hours consecutively at a time."

Patrick steps inside and snuggles Lizzie against his chest. "The joys of parenthood," he says, grinning as Lizzie wails harder. "Hey, now," he says, stepping out of his shoes and looking down at her. "None of that." He rocks his arms and rotates his torso as he moves into the living room, and Teresa sits down on the couch, looking frazzled.

To his amazement, Lizzie begins to quiet down, and Teresa gapes at him, astonished. "How did you do that?" she asks.

Patrick continues the motions. "In addition to being a psychic, I'm also a baby whisperer," he says, flashing an impish smile at her. "Kidding. I saw you do something similar when you were staying at my house. I'm just learning from watching you."

Teresa's Blackberry buzzes at that moment, signaling an incoming text. She reaches for it, then looks up at Patrick. "I called my second in command last night. They're in the middle of a case, and their prime suspect is going to walk in 24 hours if they can't find a reason to hold him. They spent the whole day yesterday digging through his records but couldn't find anything, and they haven't been making headway on the interrogation. Cho's willing to let you tag along with him, if you're up for it."

Patrick glances over at her. "You'll be fine on your own?"

She smiles sadly at him. "I've got to get used to it sometime," she says.

The doorbell rings, and Lizzie squirms in Patrick's arms. Teresa reaches for her. "That'll be Cho," she says, moving to the door. "Just so you know, he's very...well, you'll see."

Teresa opens the door, revealing a dark-haired man of muscular build and average height. His expression is unreadable until he sets eyes on the baby, and then he cracks a smile.

"Hey, boss," he says. "Wow, she's incredible." He reaches up to touch Lizzie's hand. Patrick hangs back, observing.

"Thanks for stopping by, Cho," says Teresa.

"No problem," says the man, and Teresa gestures for him to come inside. "How are you both doing?"

Teresa shuts the door, and they linger in the entryway, fussing over Lizzie.

"Good," says Teresa. "Tired, but good."

Cho reveals a gift-wrapped package from behind his back. "From Rigsby and I," he says.

Teresa looks overwhelmed. "You didn't need to…"

"We know."

Teresa smiles. "You're sweet. Thank you." She takes a deep breath and turns to Patrick. "Cho, this is Patrick Jane. Patrick, meet Kimball Cho. He's an agent on my team."

Patrick steps forward to shake the man's hand. "Pleasure," he says, and Cho nods at him, gripping his hand firmly. Patrick narrows his eyes. "Which gang?" he asks.

Teresa coughs, looking amused, and Cho raises an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"You were a member of a gang as an adolescent, yes? You've gone down the straight and narrow since then, obviously, but it's clear that your childhood was not an easy one."

Cho looks over at Teresa, suspicious. "I didn't tell him that," she says.

"She didn't need to," adds Patrick unnecessarily, rocking forward onto his toes and then back on on his heels.

Cho crosses his arms over his chest, considering. "What's his deal?"

Patrick swallows, uncomfortable.

Teresa steps in. "He's a mentalist," she supplies. "He reads people for a living."

"And you're willing to vouch for him?"

Teresa nods. "Absolutely."

Cho shrugs. "Good enough for me," he says.

* * *

"I did a background check on you," says Cho when he starts the ignition and pulls away from the curb.

Patrick looks over at the impassive agent, not terribly surprised. In fact, he'd be more concerned if Teresa's team _didn't_ look into his past.

"Never married, no record of a high school diploma or college degree, millions stored in offshore accounts, and you make your living as a psychic."

Patrick nods. "Sounds about right."

Cho looks over at him. "Sounds suspicious as hell."

"There's no such thing as psychics," Patrick says. "I don't have to believe in them to pretend to be one."

Cho scoffs. "You're not making a winning case for yourself here."

"Noted," says Patrick. "That's why I'm leaving the business," he admits.

Cho must hear something in his tone, because he says, "Tough to be a fake psychic with a conscience."

Patrick raises an eyebrow.

"You think you're the only one who can read people?" asks Cho. "And that reminds me - Lisbon tell you the deal with Elizabeth's father?"

Patrick looks down. "I know general details, yes."

"Lisbon's the best boss I've ever had. This past year she's been to hell and back. You mess with her, I'll make sure you regret it."

"Understood," says Patrick, and they ride the rest of the way in silence.

* * *

The elevator doors slide open, and Patrick looks around.

The bullpen is dark but warm, its walls lined with bricks and rooms partitioned with frosted glass. There's an office to his right with Teresa's name on it, but he follows Cho past the office to the bullpen proper.

"Rigsby," says Cho, and a man looks up from his desk where he sits behind a computer. Patrick and Cho approach, and Rigsby stands, towering over both of them. "This is Patrick Jane."

Rigsby extends a hand. "Hey," he says.

"Good to meet you," says Patrick, shaking his hand.

"So you're the mind reader?" says Rigsby, putting his hands in his pockets.

It's a challenge if Patrick's ever heard one.

He grins. "I have access to your innermost thoughts, yes. Right now you're thinking, 'God, I'm sure glad this guy can't actually read minds'. And something about pizza."

Rigsby's jaw drops, and he looks over at Cho. "Dude," he says, impressed.

Cho snorts.

"He's a mentalist, not a psychic," says Cho, clearly amused.

Rigsby nods tightly. "Right, yeah. Of course."

Cho rolls his eyes. "How much did Lisbon tell you about our current case?" he asks Patrick.

"Not much," says Patrick. "She said you needed a confession or something to work off of, and fast."

Rigsby reaches behind him to grab a file off his desk, which he hands to Patrick. "Matthew Yates, thirty-five. We think he killed his fiancee."

"We _know_ he killed his fiancee," says Cho.

Patrick takes the file and flips it open. He snaps it shut a second later, unprepared for the grisly photos of the woman's bloody corpse. He closes his eyes for a second, focusing on his biofeedback techniques. When the feeling of nausea subsides, he opens both file and eyes again.

The woman's limbs are twisted at awkward angles, and her ivory blouse is stained in dark red from what looks like multiple stab wounds. Her clothes are soaked, the ground wet, and Patrick realizes the body had been left in the rain. Her vacant eyes stare at him.

"What was her name?"

"Aileen Johanson."

Patrick takes a deep breath. "Give me half an hour to read the file. Then we'll make him sing."

* * *

Two hours later, Patrick sits on the couch in Teresa's office, watching through the blinds as Rigsby finishes processing Yates and Cho picks up the phone to call Teresa.

He can't hear what Teresa's second in command is saying, but he can read Cho's lips.

"Boss, you were right - yeah, we got him." He nods. "We'd been working on him for days, and Jane cracked him in minutes. Where the hell did you find this guy?"

Patrick chuckles.

"Yeah, I'm taking him to meet Minelli. He'll get the offer."

Patrick looks away, smiling softly.

* * *

Rigsy drives him back to Teresa's later that afternoon.

"Did Cho threaten you if you try to hurt the boss?"

Patrick tenses. "Yes, he already took care of that."

"Excellent," says Rigsby, looking satisfied. "Just know he won't be alone."

"Touché," says Patrick. He ponders Cho's and Rigsby's warnings, deciding he can probably get some useful information out of the gentle giant beside him. "She must be really something, for both you and Cho to be so intensely protective of her."

"She's stronger than both of us combined," says Rigsby. "And better than us, too. And I don't mean that she's a better cop, though she is."

They pull up to Teresa's condo, and Patrick follows Rigsby up to the door. Rigsby knocks softly, and the door opens soon after, revealing a Teresa who looks like she's had a couple more hours of sleep than when Patrick had last seen her.

"Rigsby," she whispers, clearly happy to see him. "Lizzie's sleeping, but if you want to see her, come on in."

Rigsby steps inside, and Patrick follows him.

"Thanks for the stuffed dinosaur, by the way," says Teresa as she shuts the door behind them. "And tell Cho for me?"

"Of course," Rigsby says quietly.

Patrick waits as Rigsby tiptoes over to the bassinet, peering down at the sleeping infant. "Boss, she's gorgeous."

Teresa beams at him. "Thanks, Rigsby," she says.

"If you need anything, call, all right?" he says, then he excuses himself to get back to work.

After the door closes behind him, Teresa turns to Patrick. "Well?" she says, expectant.

He grins and digs in his pocket, handing his new identification card over to her. She takes it with slightly shaky fingers, and Patrick gets lost in the smile that lights up the entire room.

"Congratulations," she says, stepping toward him. She hesitates for a second, clearly still navigating which boundaries remain intact for their unconventional relationship. But Patrick meets her halfway, and she throws her arms around him.

It's a foreign feeling, belonging, but he thinks he could get used to it.

Teresa steps back, and Patrick can't wipe the ecstatic grin from his face.

"When do you start?"

"One month," he says. "I need some time to get my affairs in order back in Malibu and to find a place here." He shrugs. "It shouldn't be too difficult - I'm planning on downsizing, so I can sell pretty much everything and not worry about moving it."

"If there's anything I can do to help - " begins Teresa.

He knows she'd be willing to help him move, but he doesn't want her lifting anything or traveling so soon after giving birth, especially considering the already lengthy car ride she'd taken to get from Malibu to Sacramento. He says so, and he can see Teresa's face visibly fall.

He studies her, curious.

"You'll go stir crazy here by yourself, won't you?" Patrick's already caving, and he can tell based on her look of relief that she's aware.

"I love Lizzie, but her conversational skills are somewhat lacking," says Teresa, and Patrick chuckles. "And I have a lot of time scheduled for maternity leave."

He holds her gaze, considering.

He's known her for less than a week, but to him it feels like a lifetime. He knows her main support system consists of Rigsby and Cho, both of whom will be working full-time and won't be around much to help her. She's facing an isolated and lonely few weeks, he thinks.

"Pack your bags," he says, giving in. Internally, he's ecstatic, and he immediately tries to mask this before realizing how ridiculous that seems. So, instead, he lets his emotions play out on his face, and Teresa's answering grin is everything.

* * *

They start out for Malibu the next morning and arrive by mid-afternoon, an unusual light rain bringing with it a blanket of fog. Patrick drives slowly up the winding road to his home, mindful of the slick roads. Parking the car in the drive, he looks back at Lizzie and then over at Teresa, both of whom are sleeping soundly.

He stills, watching Teresa for a few seconds before reaching over to touch her hand. "We're here," he says in a low voice, and she blinks, disoriented. He smiles at her. "Come on," he says softly, and they make their way inside.

* * *

He'd had the foresight to ask his assistant, still in his employ for another month, to order cardboard boxes and packing tape, and he spends a couple happy hours with Teresa and Lizzie that afternoon sorting items in his living room into boxes labeled "to keep" or "to donate". The furniture, he knows, is too large for the apartment size he wants in Sacramento, so he makes arrangements for a local mission center to pick it up at the end of the week.

Teresa is helping him remove books from their shelves when she suddenly become quiet, and Patrick glances over at her. She's holding a small piece of paper in one hand, a worn copy of _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_ in the other. She's smiling, her expression identical to the one she'd worn when she'd watched him holding Lizzie right before they'd left the hospital.

She looks up. "This is you?" she asks, holding out the paper for him to see. It's not just a paper; it's a photograph, and Patrick steps nearer, looking at it over her shoulder. A young boy with bleach blond hair and bright eyes stares back at him, his smile so wide his eyes appear to squint.

"Guilty as charged," says Patrick.

Teresa grins. "You're precious," she says. She flips through the book. "Do you have any more?"

Patrick shakes his head. "I doubt it," he says. "I'd forgotten I even had that one. My father wasn't big on documenting my existence as a child. I got that picture - and the book - from my aunt."

Teresa tucks the picture back into the novel. She brushes past him, her shoulder bumping his, to set the book in one of the boxes labeled "to keep".

* * *

Later, he offers to take her to his favorite restaurant, an old Italian place. It's one of the best kept secrets of Malibu, almost always devoid of the city's usual swarms of tourists. Patrick holds the door open for Teresa, and they step inside the dimly-lit restaurant, eyes adjusting to light mostly provided by candles and string lights lining the ceiling and walls.

"Should we have made a reservation?" asks Teresa anxiously.

Patrick shakes his head. "The owner and I go way back. I helped him quit smoking."

Teresa arches an eyebrow. "What do you mean, you helped him quit?"

He taps his thumbs together as they wait for the hostess to show the couple ahead of them to their seats. "I'm also a hypnotist," Patrick admits, and Teresa gapes at him.

"That actually works?"

Patrick gives her a cocky smile. "If you're good enough. And I am."

The hostess returns, flashing Patrick a killer smile. "Mr. Jane!" she says. "Give us two minutes to clean up your usual table, if that's all right."

"Of course, Cheryl, thank you," says Patrick.

She sends him another grin as she leads them through the restaurant a few minutes later, heading toward a small table in the corner of the room isolated from the other diners. Teresa sets Lizzie's car seat down on the seat and then slides into the booth after, and Patrick sits opposite her.

"You must come here often," remarks Teresa, and there's something in her eyes that looks a little...distant?

Patrick quickly realizes what she's thinking, but before he can say anything, the owner appears at his shoulder, wearing a broad smile.

"Patrick!" he says, his accent still thick despite immigrating from Italy over two decades ago. He turns to Teresa. "And who is the lovely lady? And - " He catches sight of Lizzie. "Carinissima!" he says. "What a darling child."

Patrick smiles. "Teresa, this is Agostino. Agostino, this is my friend Teresa and her daughter, Lizzie."

Agostino reaches over to shake Teresa's hand. "What a pleasure it is, Miss Teresa. You know," he says, his eyes twinkling, "you must be something special. Patrick is always eating here alone, and I must confess our pasta is much improved in the company of others."

Teresa's brow furrows in surprise, and Patrick feels himself blush before he can stop it. Agostino excuses himself, and Patrick takes a sip of water, wondering why his biofeedback tricks are suddenly failing him. He decides to embrace it.

"You are, you know," he says matter of factly, and Teresa looks at him, questioning. "Special," he clarifies.

She's suddenly absorbed with perusing her menu. "Flirt," he swears he hears her say under her breath, and he laughs deeply.

* * *

After finishing their tiramisu, which Agostino insists is on the house, Patrick offers to carry Lizzie on their way to the car. He adjusts her blanket and grabs the handle with one hand, and Teresa follows at his other hip. They step out into the night, and he breathes in, smelling the ocean breeze.

There's suddenly a brilliant flash, and Teresa stumbles back, her hand covering her eyes. Patrick groans and reaches for her hand, guiding her along as her vision adjusts. The flashes continue as he opens the door for her then safely attaches Lizzie's seat to the base in the car.

He peels out of the parking lot, feeling sick.

Teresa looks over at him. "Patrick?" she asks.

He frowns. "Must be a slow news day," he says gruffly.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm sorry," he says. "I would have warned you, but I've never had to deal with paparazzi at Agostino's before. If I'd known they were going to be here, I wouldn't have suggested we come."

Her lower lip drops slightly, then she closes it, her mouth forming a thin line. "Paparazzi," she says with an expression of disgust, as though the word itself is dirty somehow. He can see her mind whirling as she catches up. "How famous is your psychic business, exactly?"

He sighs. "Only locally. And most days, I can go pretty much anywhere without being recognized because there are usually much bigger stories to be told," he says, gesturing to some of the gigantic homes they are passing by - the homes of movie stars, of artists, of musicians. "But, uh, romance sells," he says quietly, looking over at her apologetically. "Even if they're selling lies rather than the truth. I'm sorry," he says again. "I wasn't thinking. I don't really date, so I've never had to deal with tabloids caring about my personal life."

She's silent the rest of the ride back, and Patrick leaves her be, not wanting to push her any further than she'd already been pushed tonight. He heads to the deck, breathing in sea salt and shrugging out of his jacket.

Eventually, she joins him, the fog from earlier still hanging over them and obscuring the stars. She leaves the sliding door open so they can hear Lizzie if need be.

"I didn't mean to retreat earlier," she says, resting one hand on the railing and turning toward him. He looks over at her from where he's leaning on his forearms. "I was just surprised, that's all." She smiles tentatively. "It's a new experience for me to be chased by paparazzi."

"We might end up on page six tomorrow," he says, sighing. Then he shifts, rotating his shoulders so they are face to face. "I'm sorry. Dealing occasionally with paparazzi is part of the life I chose. I accept that. But it doesn't seem quite fair that others close to me also have to accept that their privacy will be invaded."

Teresa steps forward. "It's okay," she says. "Really. We'll just have to be careful if we're putting you undercover somewhere." She smiles. "Plus, I'm sure there are benefits of being friends with a celebrity, even if he is a relatively minor one." She puts emphasis on the penultimate word, and he nearly chokes on his laughter.

"Trust you to tease me mercilessly on _that_ aspect of it."

"Oh, this is fodder for _years_ of teasing."

He can't help but laugh at the satisfaction in her voice. Then he looks out over the ocean, well aware that she's still watching him with interest.

"You don't date?" she asks tentatively.

Patrick glances over at her. "You don't, either."

"Fair enough," Teresa admits. She hesitates. "Why?"

"Oh so many reasons. I guess maybe because if I let people close to me, they'd find out what I was really like...and then they'd leave. It's easier - it hurts less - if I'm the one who leaves." He ducks his head. "No, my dating history is a string of one-night stands that I couldn't even be bothered with enough to take home."

The words are out before he can stop them, and he's horrified - just like the day they met, his secrets aren't safe around this woman.

But Teresa isn't fazed; rather she leans closer, brushing her arm against his. "My track record isn't any better than yours," she admits. "I was engaged, once, back home in Chicago."

"What happened?"

She shrugs. "Everything. So I ran away."

"You weren't ready."

"No," she agrees. "And then here, with - " It's clear she can't get the name out, so Patrick waits patiently. "I still wasn't ready," she whispers finally. "And that broke his heart."

He covers her hand with his. "You'll be ready someday."

She flips her hand so their palms lie together, then links their fingers. "Someday will be too late."

He tightens his grip on her hand.


	4. Chapter 4

Patrick wakes early and heads for the kitchen, somewhat surprised not to see Teresa and Lizzie already up. Hoping that the baby had managed to sleep more than a couple of consecutive hours for Teresa's sake, he sets about making breakfast, cracking open some eggs and prepping to make omelets.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and Patrick reaches for it, groaning when he sees the name on the caller ID. He _really_ doesn't want to deal with his publicist now.

Though he ignores the call, she calls back five minutes later, and Patrick flips open the phone, sighing. "Sharon," he says curtly.

"Damn it, Patrick, you couldn't have given me any warning that you'd knocked someone up?"

Patrick rolls his eyes. "If that were true, I would have," he says, adding peppers to the skillet.

"So who's the woman?" Sharon's voice has always irked Patrick, but it's worse today - even more nasally than usual.

"She's a friend," says Patrick.

"For god's sake, Patrick, why the secrecy? If you'd told me about her sooner, we could have used this. As it stands, you only made a small blurb in _The Daily Leader._ Given some warning, I could have gotten you the front page."

"So?"

His publicist scoffs. "That little tabloid blurb got you about fifteen gigs this morning, Patrick. Imagine what a front page article would have done."

"My life is not a story to sell, and neither is Teresa's," hisses Patrick. He forgets for a second what he's doing and sets a closed fist on the stove, then jerks his hand away reflexively against the heat. He swears under his breath. Sharon doesn't notice.

"You might feel differently if you knew what some of those offers were worth."

"I sincerely doubt it."

"Look, I can still salvage this. Take her on a proper date, someplace visible, and I'll give the media a head's up."

Patrick swears again, this time louder and more colorfully.

"Ah," says Sharon. "You've really fallen for her, haven't you?"

Patrick says nothing.

"What happened, Patrick? Last week you were eager to hear my ideas about expanding the brand."

"I'm quitting," says Patrick suddenly. "Changing careers."

Sharon laughs. "Right. What are you going to do?"

"Something with purpose."

"Do you hear yourself?"

"Very clearly. I realize that this leaves you in a rough spot - I'll give you one story to sell to tide yourself over until you can find a new client. Tell the world my psychic business was a sham. Tell them I'm a fake."

There's silence on the other end of the line. Several seconds pass, and then Sharon says, "My god. You're serious."

"I told you I was done." Patrick turns off the stove; the omelet is burnt anyway. "I can't make a living telling people lies anymore."

"Jesus, Patrick - all those years we spent developing this? And you're throwing it away? Just like that?"

"Without a second thought. I'm sorry, Sharon. But you'll be fine - that story alone will pay your salary for a year, and I'm sure you have others you can sell as well. Drag my name for all it's worth, but leave Teresa out of this."

He hangs up and turns around to find himself face to face with the very woman he'd been talking about.

She stares at him, visage pale, mouth slightly open. Then she seems to shake herself, and she notices the way he's cradling his hand.

She reaches for him, careful not to touch the blistered skin, and pulls him toward the sink, where she turns on cool water and places his hand underneath.

Patrick lets out a breath. He'd been so agitated, he hadn't even realized how much pain he'd been in. He looks down. "How long were you listening?"

"From when you told the person on the other end of the line to go fu - "

"Long enough, then."

She smiles at him.

"Who was it?"

He sighs. "My publicist," he says. "My _former_ publicist."

Teresa looks up at him. "What did they want?"

He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter now."

Teresa studies him, her eyes curious, before she heads for the living room. She returns with a couple fragments of the aloe vera plant he has sitting near one of his front windows, snapping them and shutting off the faucet. She reaches for his hand and then rubs the salve over his blistered skin. He sighs in relief.

"Hope that plant didn't have sentimental value," says Teresa wryly.

He chuckles.

"Are you okay?" she asks.

"We made _The Daily Leader_ ," he says bitterly.

Teresa considers this. "Was it at least a good shot of us?"

He looks over at her, confused, before she breaks into a grin.

"You're making fun of me," he says, and he can't help but smile back.

"Oh, absolutely," she says, stepping toward him and tilting her head up.

And suddenly, his hand doesn't hurt at all.

* * *

By midafternoon, they've sorted through and packed up the belongings in Patrick's guest bedrooms, and as he tapes up the last box, he suggests they abandon packing for the day. Twenty minutes later, they find themselves walking the private beach on his residence, and he looks over, smiling at the small swaddle of purple fabric that contains Lizzie, strapped safely to Teresa's chest.

"You sure you want to give this up?" asks Teresa, looking out over the ocean. "The view here is practically paradise."

Patrick shrugs, glancing at her. "There are better views," he says. "And if I'm being honest, there's not a lot I'll miss about Malibu. My whole life has been about illusions, about selling something fake, and Malibu is a big part of that. I'm looking forward to living something real for the first time." He pauses, thinking. "Tell me about a typical day at the CBI."

She laughs. "The truth is that there is no such thing as a typical day. We work multiple cases at once, so it depends on what's open at any given time."

"Tell me about the process of working a case, then."

"It starts with a call - rarely during normal work hours, unfortunately. We go to the scene, meet with the coroner, see what information the crime scene techs can give us. Processing the scene can take hours, contrary to how they show it on TV."

"Do you attend the autopsy?"

"Sometimes," she says.

"How do you compartmentalize?"

She looks at him sadly. "You don't, not really."

"Does it get easier?" He thinks of his violent reaction to a mere picture of a corpse and worries if he'll be able to stomach seeing one in person.

"Everyone finds their own way to cope. And it helps to remember you're not alone - your team has your back."

He nods.

"You're nervous," she observes, stepping in front of him and stopping, putting a hand against his chest to bring him up short in front of her.

"This matters," he says. "For the first time in my life, I have a purpose." He thinks back to their first conversation as he was changing the tire on her mustang. "It's kind of terrifying."

"It's exhilarating, too."

He nods again. "Yes."

She reaches for his hand. "You're going to be fine. Plus, we have a few weeks until you start - I'll put you through law enforcement boot camp."

He feels the color drain from his face. "That sounds painful."

She throws her head back in laughter. "I meant I'll walk you through how to approach a scene, how to interview suspects, how to give testimony."

Patrick lets out a breath, relieved.

"It might not be a bad idea to teach you how to defend yourself, though."

"I'll be perfectly content to duck behind you and your gun at the first sign of trouble."

She smirks at him. "Still, it's good to be prepared for every possible scenario," she says. "Once I get cleared for physical activity, I can show you."

A wave breaks around their ankles, and he studies her strong features.

"You protect everyone," he says eventually. "But who protects you? Who saves you?"

Teresa ducks her head, letting go of his hand to rest hers over Lizzie protectively. She's quiet for so long, Patrick nearly gives up on an answer.

"Eric McCord," she says quietly, her voice barely audible over the sound of the sea. "My partner's name was Eric McCord."

Patrick wants to reach out to her, but he's terrified that any sudden movements will disrupt the fragile liminality between them.

"We, uh, trained together at the academy, then got hired in the same cohort of cops at SFPD. We served on a lot of the same shifts as beat cops. It was his idea to apply to the CBI - he applied for Narcotics, I applied for Serious Crimes. We weren't together long, but we were friends for much longer." She tucks her hair behind her ears, but the wind just steals it away again. "One day, he surprised me with reservations to spend the weekend away from the city, and I...I panicked. It seemed like such a big step. So I made something up - told him I needed to be with my team because we were on the verge of making a big arrest."

Patrick shivers.

Teresa continues. "He was disappointed, but he tried not to show it. He offered to work that Saturday for someone who wanted to switch shifts. Narcotics had a lead, but something went wrong. He was shot during the raid. He died at the scene - never even made it to the hospital."

Her breath shakes, and so does he when she looks up at him with broken eyes.

"If I had said yes, he'd still be alive."

"Teresa…" He doesn't stop himself from reaching out to her this time, folding her against his chest, Lizzie tucked securely between them. He doesn't try to soothe her with superficial platitudes, knowing she's heard them all before.

Instead, he cradles her head in one hand and moves his other to the small of her back, offering what small protection his arms can give her.

* * *

That evening, they sit in front of the fireplace in Patrick's mostly empty living room, going over basic interrogation procedure, sitting on the couch thigh to thigh. Teresa holds her laptop, and Lizzie sleeps noiselessly in the bassinet at Teresa's elbow.

Teresa gestures to the video, where she and Cho are sitting across the table from a man who looks as though he weighs as much as the two of them combined. "There are some instances when we lie in interrogations," she says. "Which is exactly what Cho is doing here. For example, we can tell suspect that their accomplice has confessed or that we have more evidence than we actually do. But we have to be careful not to cross a line - Narcotics just got in trouble for blatantly stepping over that line."

She lets Patrick watch the video for a few minutes before reaching out to pause it. Patrick sees something in her expression, so he grabs her hand, pulling it away from the laptop and pressing _play_ again. He gives her a cheeky grin.

Teresa protests, but Patrick holds her hands in place, watching the interrogation play out. After ten more seconds, the suspect lunges toward her, and she dodges him quickly, slamming his body into the table as Cho watches, unperturbed.

Patrick stops the video, looking over at her with wide eyes. "Don't take this the wrong way, but that was _hot_ ," he says, impressed and also hoping to lighten the mood from earlier today.

She looks at him, deadpan. "You should see me with a taser."

Mindful of the sleeping baby, it takes everything in him not to laugh out loud. Teresa slips her hand out from under his and moves to the next video.

Several videos later, he can feel her growing tired next to him, watching out of the corner of his eye as her eyelids droop. Eventually, her head drops to his shoulder, and he knows she's asleep.

Patrick reaches over to open her internet browser. The article in _The Daily Leader_ had been on the back of his mind the entire day, and he's curious if it's as bad as their normal fare - or worse.

He types his name into the browser, surprised when it pops up right away; she must have already searched his name at some point. The first link is to the news article in question, and though he's no expert, the link appears a different color than all the others, as though it's already been followed. Teresa clearly has seen the pictures.

Clicking on the link, Patrick is redirected to the tabloid homepage, where he sees a photo of himself and Teresa, clearly taken after they'd realized they'd been ambushed. He looks grim, Teresa shocked. He says a silent thank you to the universe that Lizzie's carrier had been facing away from the photographer.

Capital letters spell out the glaring headline: _IS LOVE IN THIS PSYCHIC'S FUTURE?_

Patrick nearly groans.

He skims the article, concerned.

 _Patrick Jane, 35, renowned psychic and hypnotist, appears to have finally found love. He was spotted leaving a local Italian restaurant with an unidentified woman and carrying a child, presumably his. Jane has always kept his love life under wraps, perhaps as a strategy of wooing female fans who prefer their idols to be unattached, leading some to speculate that his decision to go public with his relationship means this woman is "the one"._

Patrick sighs, though his second thought is that the article could have been much worse. At least Teresa hadn't been attacked or identified by name.

His stomach drops when he scrolls down further and sees his name again. Clicking the second link, he finds more recent pictures, this time of himself and Teresa on the beach, holding hands, clearly taken with a telephoto lens from quite some distance away. Teresa's expression isn't visible, but his is. He looks besotted.

There's no accompanying article this time, just a caption. _Fatherhood seems to be agreeing with heartthrob Patrick Jane, seen here with his mystery girlfriend and their newborn daughter._

"'Heartthrob Patrick Jane'," says a sleepy voice beside him. "Can I start calling you that?"

"Hey," he says softly. "I thought you were asleep."

She blinks a couple times, watching his eyes. "Don't worry about the pictures, Patrick."

"I don't want anyone telling lies about you."

"It's not worth the energy to fret about it."

He nods. "Okay." He exits the browser and closes the laptop.

Teresa sighs. "We've got a long day ahead of us tomorrow," she says. "There's a lot of junk in your basement."

"Isn't that what basements are for?"

She smacks his shoulder lightly.

"I'm going to head to bed," she says, yawning.

"I'll walk you over to the guesthouse."

Teresa picks up Lizzie, and they move through the house, guided by starlight streaming through the windows. Patrick opens the sliding door and leads her through the garden, moisture from the grass chilling his bare feet.

He lingers when they arrive, not quite ready to leave her yet. Then he brushes a finger to Lizzie's closed fist and brushes a kiss to the corner of Teresa's mouth. "Goodnight," he whispers, forcing himself to pull away.

* * *

They spend the morning sorting through most of the items in the basement before breaking for lunch. After, Teresa sets Lizzie down for a nap and carries the baby monitor with them as they return back downstairs.

"We've made a lot of progress," notes Patrick.

"And what's left is the easy part. It shouldn't take us longer than an hour."

He holds her gaze. "Thank you," he says. "For helping me with all this."

She shrugs this off. "It's what friends do, right?"

He smiles. "Yeah. Yeah, it is."

They work in silence for a few minutes before Patrick moves a box. Dusting off the item beneath it, he grins.

It's his old record player.

The box he'd just moved holds his collection of jazz records, and he thumbs through them quickly, selecting one and dropping the needle.

Teresa looks at him, smiling softly, as she recognizes the song that had been playing on the radio when they'd started their trip to Sacramento. Patrick steps to her, holding out his hand, and his heart lurches pleasantly when she accepts.

He pulls her close, placing his other hand at the small of her back, and she lays her head on his chest. He's acutely aware of her hand clinging to his shoulder as he begins to sway them in time to the slow and steady beat.

"To keep?" she asks quietly.

"To keep," he confirms, turning his head to whisper in her ear.

* * *

The movers come at the end of the week, and Patrick and Teresa sit out on the deck, taking advantage of one last chance to use the patio furniture before it too is loaded away. Patrick is holding Lizzie, whose mother has fallen asleep next to them. Teresa has inched closer to him in sleep, and Patrick can't keep his heart from beating overtime.

He grins when he sees Lizzie smile reflexively - it's not a genuine smile yet, but he can almost pretend that she's content in his arms, that she's happy. He hopes it's true, anyway.

Teresa stirs, and Patrick looks over at her.

"Lizzie isn't the only one who can't sleep through the night, is she?"

Teresa sighs, scrubbing a hand over her face. She settles back against Patrick's side, her head coming once again to rest on his shoulder. "How did you know?"

"I wake up in the middle of the night occasionally, and I saw the light in the guesthouse on."

"I've been having nightmares," she admits. "Since well before Lizzie was born. I'm seeing a shrink, but it's not getting any better."

He can't imagine Teresa would readily employ the help of a psychologist, so the nightmares must be scaring her more than he'd realized.

"I want to be healthy, for Lizzie's sake," says Teresa, her voice low. "But nothing I do seems to work."

"You're doing all you should be," says Patrick. "Sometimes these things just take time."

At that moment, two bulky men step through the open sliding door and walk across the deck.

"We're all finished, Mr. Jane," says the taller of the two. "All that's left is this stuff on the patio."

Patrick stands. "Excellent," he says, shifting Lizzie slightly and extending his hand to shake both of the men's hands in thanks. "I really appreciate it."

"This is being donated as well?" asks the other man, gesturing to the patio furniture.

"Yes," says Patrick, and Teresa joins them.

"Sounds good," says the man. "Jake's already on his way to Sacramento with the items you wanted moved."

"I confirmed this morning that the storage unit is ready, so he should be set," says Patrick. "Thanks again, guys."

Patrick and Teresa migrate to the railing overlooking the ocean while the two men get to work moving the last of the furniture. Ten minutes later, the trucks have pulled out of the driveway, and Patrick looks through the windows into an empty house.

"You okay?" asks Teresa.

"Yeah," he says, and he means it. "Yeah, I am."

* * *

He follows her to Sacramento in his Citroen, pulling up beside her condo to help her move her bags and Lizzie inside. He plans to leave quickly, but Teresa asks him to stay for a few minutes, and he follows her upstairs to the nursery, watching as she lays Lizzie down for the night.

When Lizzie is asleep, they move downstairs, and Teresa hands him a flashdrive. He waits for her to explain.

"For weeks, I'd sneak a file or two home from the CBI, copy all the papers, and then return the files in the morning. That drive has everything the CBI knows about Eric's death."

"Why are you giving it to me?"

Teresa wraps her arms around herself, and Patrick can see goosebumps appear on her arms.

"The day we met," she begins, "I was in Malibu working on this case. Or at least, I planned to be. The botched drug bust took place on the other side of the city, and I wanted to see the scene." She looks down, taking a steadying breath. "But I couldn't do it. I felt myself slipping, and I knew I couldn't let myself go down the rabbit hole with Lizzie due so quickly. So I drove in the opposite direction, taking random roads, until suddenly I ended up with a busted tire right in front of your doorstep."

Patrick steps toward her, placing a gentle finger under her chin to lift her eyes to his.

"I can't let myself work this case," Teresa continues. "I need to be here for my daughter, not stuck in the past going through everything I could have done differently to prevent what happened to Eric. So I'm giving this to you because I know I can trust you to keep it safe. I'm not asking you to look into it, but I'm not forbidding you from doing so either."

"And if I find something?" His mind is already made up, after all.

Teresa smiles sadly. "Take it to Cho. He'll know what to do."

Patrick nods, and he lets his hand drop to his side. Teresa steps closer, telegraphing what she's about to do, and she reaches up to lay her hand on his cheek. Her lips ghost against his jaw.

"Thank you," she breathes.

He tucks the flashdrive into the pocket over his heart.


	5. Chapter 5

Patrick has used a computer only a handful of times in his life, and he begins to regret his reliance on paid assistants and his lack of formal schooling come morning, when he realizes he'll need to brush up on some technical skills in order to look into McCord's case. Reluctantly, he takes his Citroen to the nearest store that sells computers, heading for the laptops on display in the back. Before he even begins to look, two salesmen come up to ask if he needs help, and though he obviously does, he declines, opting instead to explore his options on his own.

He opens up the internet browser on the nearest display laptop and begins researching. Eventually, he decides he can't really go wrong with the top of the line model, so he chooses that, and the saleswomen ringing him up gives him a megawatt smile when he decides to add all the bells and whistles. He walks out of the store $1500 poorer, but at least he knows the difference between a Mac and a PC.

Back in his hotel room, Patrick opens the blinds and sets up a temporary workspace at the desk by the window. He takes the flashdrive from his pocket, flipping it over in his hands as he steels himself. Then he inserts the drive into the USB port.

He's initially overwhelmed by the number of files that are available, but he breathes in, breathes out. He can do this - he _has_ to do this. He decides to read the police report first in hopes that it will prepare him for seeing the crime scene photos.

It doesn't.

Eight months ago, Malibu PD had requested additional men and women to assist with a drug bust. Neighboring cities had volunteered officers; the CBI could only spare McCord, who immediately made the drive to Malibu. The bust started normally, with officers clearing the abandoned warehouse room by room; suddenly, however, six shots rang out, and the first officers to appear in a small annex room saw McCord lying on the floor, one carotid artery and femoral artery both severed. Pressure was put on both wounds, and a tourniquet applied to his leg, but the femoral artery was cut higher than the tourniquet could be tied, rendering it useless.

He was dead before the paramedics arrived.

Patrick keeps reading, hoping that Teresa hasn't seen the report but knowing in his heart that she has.

McCord had done everything right, it seemed: he was wearing the correct tactical gear (his Kevlar vest had taken four of the bullets) and other officers testified that they'd seen him clear other rooms properly. The report concluded that someone had been waiting in the room for him - someone likely with training in police procedure, allowing them to hide in the location that McCord would sweep last. Whoever it was, they'd put another bullet in the window at the far side of the room, dropping the gun by McCord's body before fleeing through the broken glass and slipping away.

 _Why leave the gun?_ thinks Patrick, eyes narrowing. It made sense, at least, to discard of any evidence linking the suspect to the murder, but Patrick can't see how they would have had time to wipe the gun down to clean their fingerprints off it. Were they wearing gloves? He checks the weather for that day. Unlikely, he decides. It had been blisteringly hot. And yet - no fingerprints. How was that possible? Tracing the gun had also led to a dead end; the serial number had been filed away.

Patrick reaches the end of the police report and nearly groans. They hadn't found any sign of drugs. The drug bust had been exactly that - a bust.

He realizes his hands are shaking slightly when he opens the first of the crime scene photos. There are hundreds of them, starting from wide shots of the outside of the warehouse and also including closer range shots of individual rooms. The first shot of McCord's body appears without warning, and Patrick pushes his chair back, striding toward the bathroom, where he leans against the sink, his head down. It takes several minutes for the room to stop spinning, and he splashes water on his face before preparing himself to try again.

McCord had been tall - roughly six foot three - and lean, with a military style haircut and hazel eyes. Patrick can't help but think of the height difference between McCord and Teresa. His heart immediately aches, and it occurs to him not for the first time that Teresa has known more pain these past eight months than he has in a lifetime.

He returns to the photos.

Patrick spends the rest of the day memorizing every detail on the flashdrive. He creates a special room in his memory palace for the case, filing away every sentence, every picture, every interview transcript. Eventually, he knows he can't get any further without talking to the men and women who were there that day, and he powers down his computer, closing his eyes.

A minute later, he looks out the window and is surprised to see the moon rather than the sun; he hadn't even noticed the sun sink. His stomach growls, and he phones down for room service, not feeling like venturing into the city to try an unfamiliar restaurant.

His phone buzzes.

It's a text message from Teresa, and Patrick stares at her name for several seconds, realizing that this is the first day since they've met that he hasn't seen her. It feels...strange, he decides. She and Lizzie had become almost like an extension of himself, of his soul. It is odd to suddenly be on his own again.

Then he looks at the text, and he realizes he isn't really.

 _How's the apartment hunting going? You need an extra pair of eyes tomorrow?_

He'd completely forgotten he was supposed to be looking for a place to live today. He shrugs internally. Priorities.

He responds immediately.

 _Your eyes would be very much appreciated._

She doesn't respond right away, and he realizes she's probably struggling to answer the masked compliment, which he knows she would have recognized.

 _How is Lizzie?_ he asks.

The response is instantaneous this time. _I think she missed you today_. _She was a bit antsy._

Patrick smiles at this. _We'll make up for it tomorrow. Pick you up at nine?_

 _See you then._

Patrick nearly closes his phone at this, but it buzzes again with another text.

 _Patrick?_

He stills, though his heart doesn't. _Yes?_ he responds.

 _I missed you today, too._

He has to read the words several times before he's sure he's understood them correctly. He types out his reply several times, deletes the text just as many times, and then finally types a short message.

 _I missed you, too. See you tomorrow._

He sleeps dreamlessly.

* * *

She opens the door for him the next morning, and he immediately wraps her in his arms. She tenses at the unexpected hug, then twists her arms around the small of his back.

"You opened the flashdrive, didn't you?" she asks against his neck.

He nods. "Teresa, I'm so sorry."

She squeezes him, and he tucks her head under his chin. He wonders vaguely if the embrace they'd shared upon returning to his home after she'd given birth was the first time someone had held her in eight months, and he resolves to hug her as often as she'll let him. His arms tighten around her.

Lizzie cries from inside the condo. Teresa pulls back, and Patrick lets his arms fall to his sides. He follows her as she goes to pick up Lizzie, who sticks a precious hand out toward Patrick and quiets slightly.

Patrick looks at Teresa. She gestures for him to pick up Lizzie, so he does, and Lizzie stops crying when he holds her against his chest. "Can she recognize me?" he says, not quite keeping the awe from his voice.

Teresa grins. "I think so," she says. "From what I've read, newborns are better at remembering faces than adults are."

"A mini-mentalist," he whispers as Lizzie smiles reflexively. "Excellent."

Teresa chuckles and reaches down to grab Lizzie's go bag. She checks to make sure everything is in the bag, then lays a hand on his upper arm. "You ready?"

He nods.

* * *

They're mistaken for a couple at the first apartment complex they visit, and then again at four others. Patrick starts to correct the mistake at first, but then he catches the amused glint in Teresa's eye and drops the subject.

She thinks to ask things that never would have occurred to him, and he's immediately grateful for her presence. "I've done a lot of moving," she says in explanation when he looks at her once, clearly overwhelmed with possible choices.

At lunchtime, they find a sandwich shop and stop by a park, finding a shady spot under a tree. Teresa begins to breastfeed Lizzie, arranging a flowy lilac scarf over her chest to cover her skin, and Patrick leans against the tree, waiting to touch his food until Teresa can eat hers.

"I think you have four good options," says Teresa, listing off the names of the complexes. "The fifth is too far away to make the commute worth it. If you've never had to drive in for work, you haven't had to deal with rush hour, so I highly recommend considering it."

"A fair point," says Patrick.

"Do you have any deal breakers?" asks Teresa. "Like absence of a kitchen island or walk-in closet?"

He laughs. "I think you're overestimating how particular I am," he says. "Honestly, I'd be fine with one room as long as it's big enough for a couch."

"You do like to cook, though," Teresa points out. "You might grow to hate the small kitchen in the last one we saw."

He nods. "And then there were three." He thinks about the options. All have similar views, square footage, and other amenities. Only one of them, however, is a six minute drive from Teresa's condo. He turns his head to hold her gaze. "What do you think?"

She studies him. "You've already made up your mind, right?"

He smiles. "Yes. I'm just curious if we agree."

Teresa looks down at Lizzie, and Patrick wonders if she's doing this so he can't read her. She's learning fast.

"I like the one on Maple Grove," she says.

He wonders if smiling too much will add extra wrinkles to his face and decides he couldn't care less. "I like that one, too," he agrees.

* * *

Patrick drops Teresa off at home in time for Lizzie's nap, but when Teresa picks up Lizzie and the go bag from the back of his car, she invites him in, and he can't say no to her. (Nor does he want to.) Lizzie is already sleeping by the time she's laid down in the nursery, and Teresa joins Patrick again in the living room.

She's suddenly shy, and it's incredibly endearing.

"I got you a housewarming present," she says, grabbing a gift-wrapped box from her counter and stepping toward him.

Patrick's breath catches.

Teresa's brilliant gaze scrutinizes him. "Are you okay?"

He nods, still choked up. "I...I, uh...This is going to sound ridiculous - because it is - but I've never gotten a real present before," he whispers. "My mother disappeared soon after she gave birth to me, and my father wasn't the parental type, and…" He swallows, trying to compose himself. Then he wipes at his eyes self-consciously. "Sorry," he says. "I'm usually better at masking what I'm feeling."

"You don't need to mask anything," says Teresa. "Not with me."

Her jade eyes are mesmerizing, and he feels himself being pulled under, entranced. He'd always thought there wasn't a person in the world capable of hypnotizing him, but it looks like she's proven him wrong.

He nods again, and she hands him the box, smiling softly. "Open it," she says playfully, nudging him.

Patrick begins tearing the paper carefully, but when she rolls her eyes, he rips it from the box eagerly. Wadding the wrapping paper up and setting it to the side, he lifts the lid off and nearly drops the box. Teresa reaches out to steady him.

It's a purple teacup and saucer, precisely the shade of the bassinet he'd bought for Lizzie.

"When we were in Malibu," says Teresa, "I noticed you're a tea drinker."

He gingerly lifts the teacup out of the box. "It's perfect," he murmurs, overcome. He tries to thank her and chokes on the words before trying again. "Thank you. So much."

This time she pulls him into her embrace.

Her thumb rubs soothingly against the skin at the nape of his neck, and with this small movement comes a monumental revelation: he loves this woman. And not only that -

He's in love with her.

Probably has been since the moment he opened his front door and saw her standing there, all fierceness and fire.

 _Do you think we were always supposed to meet?_

He's still not sure if he believes in fate, but he most definitely believes in her, and he thinks that's a hell of a lot better anyway.

* * *

Patrick buys an identical bassinet to keep at his apartment. It's the first thing he brings into his new home the next morning, along with the teacup, saucer, and several other baby-related items he foresees they might need.

The movers show up soon after he does, and they do all the heavy lifting. His heart lurches upon seeing the familiar furniture again, though he realizes belatedly he's thinking of the memories associated with the furniture in the last week or so - Teresa falling asleep on his shoulder on the couch, Teresa starting a pillow fight and not giving up until he admitted defeat.

Teresa herself shows up, Lizzie in tow, about an hour after the movers have left when Patrick is wading through boxes that wait to be unpacked. Things speed up considerably with her help, though they do get sidetracked when he decides a rematch of their previous pillow fight is in order. He wins this time, but only because he discovers that Teresa is extremely ticklish, and he realizes that this is his new favorite way to make her laugh.

That evening, he's cleaning up the kitchen after they'd devoured their takeout dinners when he looks up to see Teresa sprawled on his couch, asleep. He debates waking her up to take her home but decides against it - he knows she's exhausted, and maybe tonight he can take care of Lizzie so Teresa can sleep more than two hours in a row. Not for the first time, he admires her strength in taking on the role of parent alone.

So he walks tentatively across the room, slipping a hand under her knees and another behind her back. He's not strong by any means, but Teresa has little extra weight beside lean muscle, and he finds she fits easily into his arms. She doesn't wake as he carries her down the hall to the master bedroom, and he lays her down on the newly reassembled bed, pulling the covers over her thin frame.

He shuts off the lights in the hallway, checks on Lizzie one last time, and takes Teresa's place on the couch.

He's asleep within minutes.

* * *

Patrick has never been a heavy sleeper, a trait he's never found useful until early the next morning, when he hears a terrified voice utter his name. Startled, he blinks twice before he is fully awake, and his eyes try to adjust to the dark. On instinct, he grabs the baby monitor he'd purchased the day before, turns it on and sets the camera next to Lizzie, then he heads immediately to the master bedroom, where Teresa has become tangled in the covers as she thrashes around in her sleep. He sets the monitor screen down on the bedside table.

"No!" Teresa whispers, and he wonders if it's possible for his heart to literally crack down the middle. "No - _Patrick!_ "

A fraction of a second later, his hands are smoothing back her hair, cradling her face. "Teresa," he says. "I'm here, you're here - you're _safe._ Teresa!"

She jerks again. Patrick moves his hand across her forehead, wiping away the sweat there.

" _Teresa_ ," he pleads.

Her eyes flash open, and she glances around, looking very much like a terrified, trapped animal. Her chest rises and falls as she forces air into her lungs, and he can feel the tremors travel through her body.

"Where am I?" she asks, clearly disoriented.

Patrick runs a hand through her hair. "My new apartment. Lizzie's in the living room." He points to the baby monitor.

Teresa leans back on her pillow, turning away from him but leaning into his hand. He feels water drip onto his fingers and realizes she's crying.

Her breathing is under control when she turns back to him. "It was you this time," she whispers. "You were the one bleeding out."

He doesn't stop to think.

Instead, he pulls back the comforter and slides in next to her, wrapping his arms completely around her and pulling her flush against him. He guides her head to his chest, making sure her ear is pressed to his heart.

"We'll start working on that self-defense training in the morning," he promises her.

When she'd originally suggested it, he'd balked at the idea. After all, he'd never been interested in physical activity beyond what he had to do to maintain his image for his business. But now he understands that allowing her to train him won't only keep him safe - it will also provide Teresa some peace of mind, and he cares enough about the latter to agree to her bootcamp wholeheartedly.

Her hand grips his dress shirt, and her sigh is shaky, far from steady. He freezes as he feels her fingers inch up, moving past the collar of his shirt to rest upon the spot where he now knows the carotid artery is located. He rubs her back, memorizing every touch, wondering if one day his entire memory palace will be devoted to the woman lying next to him.

"Breathe with me," Patrick says, hoping his biofeedback tricks will help her sleep.

"Don't leave," she begs, and he's known her long enough to know how much this admission costs her.

"I will never leave you willingly," he murmurs in her ear.

He feels her relax, and, minutes later, her breathing evens out.

He will do anything to protect this woman. Anything to protect her and her daughter.

Finding himself unable to sleep, he watches as the tears dry on her cheeks, as she shifts impossibly closer to him in sleep. It had been easier to never allow himself to think of holding her this way, but now that he is, he finds that he's surprised to find the normally independent, tough cop a little clingy. Not that he's complaining in the slightest.

He's mapping the constellation of freckles on her shoulder - perhaps minutes or perhaps hours later, he's not entirely sure - when he hears a soft cry from the baby monitor, and he extricates himself from Teresa carefully, reaching one arm over to the monitor to turn it off so as not to wake her. He slips out of the bed and down the hallway, picking up Lizzie with a familiarity that startles him. He cradles her in his arms, rocking back and forth gently. _When did this become normal?_ he wonders. _When did this become my life? Who am I without these girls?_

"Shh, Lizzie. Hey, it's okay. Let's be quiet so Mommy can get some sleep, all right? She loves you very much, but she loves sleep, too."

Lizzie quiets at the sound of his voice, so he continues talking in the same tone he'd used with Teresa when soothing her.

"You are safe, you are loved, and you are wise," he says. "And so is your mom, of course. But I think you already knew that."

Lizzie just blinks at him, and he's reminded of Cho's favorite interrogation technique: silence. He's surprised it works as well as it does until he's suddenly on the other end of it. It seems his secrets aren't safe around either Teresa nor her daughter.

"Okay," he admits, and the words tumble out like water over a fall after a heavy rain. "I'm head over heels in love with her, you're right. And, yes, I'm planning on telling her. When the time is right - whenever that is. She's still grieving right now, so not quite yet. Not for a while, probably." He leans down to kiss Lizzie's head. "She's worth waiting for, your mom."

He walks her around the room, still rocking her slowly.

"I've never been in love before, did you know that?" he babbles, and Lizzie watches him with clever eyes. "Yes, I realize it's early, but isn't it always the guy who says he knew right away? From the moment they met? Well, I knew. _I know_. Someday, I'll tell Teresa that. She'll probably smile and call me a hopeless romantic, and I'll agree. I'll agree with pretty much whatever she says, in fact."

He stops in front of the window, looking out over the neighborhood below them as the morning dawns. "I'm going to do all that I can to protect your mom, okay? I mean, obviously, she can protect herself. She's the most competent woman I've ever met. But maybe, just maybe, she'll let me help her once in a while. She doesn't have to be Atlas forever, holding the weight of the world on her shoulders. Maybe I can help shoulder some of the burden. And I'm going to start by closing your dad's case."

Patrick looks down, blinking in surprise to find Lizzie fast asleep. Smiling softly, he lays the infant back down, and he has to restrain himself from reaching out to touch her adorable mess of hair. He tiptoes out of the room and down the hall to the master bedroom, where he sees Teresa in nearly the same position that he'd left her, her hair as messy as her daughter's. Patrick smiles again and reaches over to turn the baby monitor back on. He slides back under the covers, pulling Teresa into his arms once more, but then he hesitates. _To hell with it_ , he decides, and he leaves a ghost of a kiss on Teresa's cheek.

He tastes salt and fresh tears and pulls back, startled, wondering if she'd been crying in her sleep while he'd been looking after Lizzie. But she looks peaceful now, so he brushes her hair back and shifts her slightly against his chest, leaning back against the pillows and closing his eyes.

His hand instinctively reaches for hers.


	6. Chapter 6

Fingers flit over his skin, their pressure so light he wonders if he's imagining the whole thing. Patrick vows not to open his eyes lest the exquisite illusion shatter.

He catches a hint of cinnamon. Teresa traces his jaw, his chin, his lips before her fingers comb through his hair. He feels every quiver, every shiver, until suddenly Teresa must lose her nerve. Her hand withdraws.

Should he open his eyes? Should he tell her not to stop? He wants to.

God, he wants to.

But he can't.

Instead, he feigns sleep, and he knows this is what she's doing now as well. Eventually, he can't stand it any longer, and he stretches, feeling the lines of her body against his, the warmth radiating from her skin. He opens his eyes, turning his head toward her.

"Good morning," he says, his voice husky with sleep. He inhales, breathing her into his lungs.

Teresa blinks, and he reads her in a fraction of a heartbeat - she hadn't realized he'd been awake. She stares back at him, all innocence, her face an inch or so from his, and he's close enough to make out the individual flecks of sage and emerald against her jade eyes. "Hey," she says, somewhat hesitantly, and he smiles broadly.

"Hi," he says. "How are you feeling?"

"Rested," she says quietly. "Finally. Thank you."

"Anytime," he murmurs. "I mean it. If you ever need...anything, I'm six minutes away." He considers. "Less if you promise you won't arrest me for speeding."

Teresa chuckles. Then she holds his gaze, her expression serious. "Patrick, I - "

He hears Lizzie's familiar cry from the baby monitor, and Teresa shoots him an apologetic glance. She brushes her fingers against his before rolling away, barely making a sound as she crosses the room. Patrick reaches his arm over to the other side of the bed, grabbing a fistful of the blanket and pulling it toward him, drawing in a breath.

Cinnamon overloads his nerve endings.

* * *

Later, they head to the nearby park to begin self defense training, Teresa pushing Lizzie in her stroller. Patrick feels inexplicably nervous - what if he makes a complete fool of himself? It's more likely than not, he predicts. But, really, what's the worst that can happen? If he is indeed absolutely dismal at self defense, he'll need more training, which likely will lead to more time spent with Teresa.

Not exactly cruel and unusual punishment.

He follows her lead as they wander around the park, and they eventually find a secluded spot under an ancient tree. Teresa checks to make sure Lizzie isn't in the sun, and then she faces Patrick, who removes his suit jacket and hangs it over the handle of the stroller.

"I assume you know some basic anatomy from your previous job," Teresa says.

He nods.

"Use that," she continues. "Pressure points, areas with a lot of blood flow - they're all areas of weakness." She brings a hand to the crook of his neck. "There's a plexus of nerves here," she says. "If you strike your attacker with your palm flat, fingers in line - "

She demonstrates, shaping her hand like a blade and whipping it toward his neck so quickly he doesn't have time to react. Her hand stops a millimeter from his skin, and he swallows nervously.

"You'll damage the nerves, and your attacker will likely just fall to the ground. Same thing with the groin - another plexus of nerves. That's why a kick or knee to that area can be so destructive. And finally, a foolproof target is the nose."

Patrick winces. "Ah, yes, I know this from personal experience."

Teresa grins. "You're lucky, then. If your attacker had done it properly, the bones of your nose and midface would have shattered and torn into your brain." She raises her hand to his face, her wrist tilted up, and mimics the motion. "It will certainly buy you time if it doesn't kill them." She looks at him with intense eyes. "Alright, you show me. Just do the motions half-out so I can make sure your form is correct."

The movements feel awkward, and Teresa notices the grimace that crosses his face.

"It's okay. This stuff always seems weird at first. It's like learning how to dance - it takes a while to get a feel for how your body moves."

He nods and tries again, and Teresa adjusts his hand slightly.

"Again."

He repeats the motions until she's satisfied, and then she reaches for his hand. She folds his fingers in, placing his thumb on the intermediate phalanges of his index and middle fingers. "If you fold your thumb under your fingers, you could break it while throwing a punch," she says. "Better to hold your hand like this instead." She brushes her fingers against his closed fist. "The impact should be here. Lead with your knuckles."

She shows him a couple of specific swings after that, rewarding him with a grin when he finally throws one that resembles an actual punch. After that, she shows him how to maneuver away from a gun pointed at his back and disarm his attacker. He struggles the most with this, having difficulty linking several distinct movements together. Eventually, Teresa takes pity on him, placing her hands on his arms to guide his motions.

After what seems like another hour, she deems his progress acceptable, and he notices suddenly that he's worked up a sweat. "You're a tough instructor," he says, breathing heavily. "Good, but tough."

She laughs, and she pulls her hair into a messy ponytail, revealing several beads of sweat at the nape of her neck that make his throat go dry. "You're not such a bad student yourself. A bit of a smartass, though."

"Oh, really?" he asks, stepping toward her, raising an eyebrow.

She lifts her face to his, all challenge. "I didn't say I didn't like it."

He chuckles.

She glances up and down his body. "I think your style will end up being very similar to mine rather than, say, Cho's or Rigsby's," she says. "You and I, we're not the strongest, but we're always thinking a couple steps ahead. That kind of mindset works well with a defensive style and using your opponent's weight against them. I'll show you some of that next time."

"I believe you just called me weak," Patrick says snarkily.

He's suddenly on his back on the soft grass without any idea as to how exactly he got there. He tries to catch his breath and watches the leaves dance in the wind overhead, the sun streaming through the canopy.

Teresa steps over him, smirking.

"I thought you weren't supposed to do anything physically exerting for six weeks after giving birth," Patrick chokes out, still searching for air.

"Who said that was physically exerting?" says Teresa, deadpan.

"Oh, good one," he says, rolling his eyes. "You think you're pretty clever, don't you?"

She crosses her arms over her chest with a satisfied expression. "Pretty much."

He reaches a hand up to her. "At least help me up, woman."

She groans and reaches for his hand.

But he pulls her down instead, making sure to cushion her fall. Tendrils of her hair escape the ponytail, fluttering down to tickle his nose, and he moves his hands to her hips, holding her steady.

"You think you're pretty cute, huh?" she says, imitating his tone.

"Pretty much," he says. "And I think you think so, too."

She pretends to ponder this. "Well, I think 'heartthrob' describes you better," she quips.

"You're full of one-liners today, aren't you?"

Teresa smiles. "You enjoy having someone to match wits with. Admit it."

Her eyes practically sparkle with mischief, and he wants to kiss the smirk off her face but knows he can't.

 _Someday_.

"Gladly," he says, and he loses his breath all over again when she runs a hand through his hair.

"As long as we're clear," she says, her voice suddenly soft, her eyes softer.

* * *

Patrick is approaching Los Padres National Forest the next evening when his phone lights up, chiming with the tone he's set to indicate a text from Teresa. Dusk is falling, and mountains loom over the interstate from either side. He grabs the phone and hits the first number on speed dial.

Teresa picks up right away. "Hey," she says.

"Hey yourself," he replies. "I heard your text, but I'm driving at the moment so I figured it'd be easier just to call you."

"Oh," she says, sounding flustered. "It wasn't urgent or anything - I...I wanted to see if I could take you to breakfast tomorrow morning. To…" He hears her breathe in deeply. "To say thank you for being there for me the other day."

He's tempted to turn around and drive the rest of the night to make it in time. Instead, he says, "Can I take a rain check? I'm actually on my way to Malibu to take care of some business. I'll be back tomorrow evening. Maybe the day after tomorrow?"

He can practically hear her smile over the phone. "I'd like that."

"It's settled, then."

"I'll pick you up at eight."

He hesitates, debating what to say next. Their friendship is still so new, so fragile, that he's terrified of overstepping. He sighs internally, realizing that if he _does_ overstep, Teresa will just knock him back into place and probably smile while she does it.

"I meant what I said yesterday morning," he says finally, firmly.

"The part about breaking speeding laws?"

He chuckles. "You know I'd break the law for you." He'd meant for his tone to be teasing, but the sincerity in his voice is unmistakable.

It doesn't escape her notice. Teresa's tone is slightly less composed when she answers. "I know you would," she says. "And about the other thing - I know that, too."

"Good," he says. "As long as we're clear," he adds, quoting her from the day before.

Her laughter floods his veins.

* * *

"Patrick Jane, CBI," he says, very aware of the badge hanging over his heart. He's wearing a freshly dry-cleaned suit, and he'd spent more time than usual this morning taming his mess of curls. He's also exceedingly nervous.

He'd arrived at the Malibu PD headquarters at precisely nine in the morning. After checking in with security, he'd been shown to the bullpen, where a tall, brown-haired woman had greeted him.

"Hanora Phillips," says the woman, extending a hand. "You're here about the warehouse bust, correct?"

He nods. "That's the one."

"How about I take you to the scene, and I can answer any questions you have on our way."

Phillips has Teresa's confidence but not her warmth, Patrick immediately notices. His next thought is that he's begun to compare every woman he meets to his favorite jade-eyed detective, and he wonders if this is what being in love is like all the time.

They take Phillips' unmarked vehicle, and she drives Patrick across the city, crossing through several neighborhoods he had never once ventured near during his time in Malibu. "So Malibu PD requested CBI take over the case?" he asks.

"We're still investigating the drug dealer," clarifies Phillips. "And we _did_ hand over McCord's case, but it wasn't at our request." She taps her ring finger against the steering wheel impatiently. "I'm not surprised you haven't made much headway in eight months - I've worked with Hannigan before, and I wouldn't trust him to butter his own toast in the morning. I'd hoped the case would be given to Lisbon - a far better cop, in my opinion - but apparently she had a personal connection to the case, so a different team took it on."

Patrick listens, intrigued.

"Forgive me for asking, but I'm still rather new in the business. Is it standard procedure for the CBI to take over a case like this?"

"Yes and no. The murder of a CBI agent is automatically assigned to the CBI. However, if the case has ties to another open case - for example, McCord's case being tied to the drug bust - usually the CBI will invite us to work the case with them. This time, no such invitation was extended." She shrugs. "So, to answer your question: yes, it's technically standard, but no, I didn't like it."

Patrick turns toward her. His eyes narrow.

"You think something's off about this case."

Phillips nods. "I do. If it were up to me, I'd do some digging myself, but I can't risk stepping on anyone's toes. Jurisdiction's a messy thing. If you're new to law enforcement, you may not have dealt with it much yet, but it's very similar to a bunch of dogs pissing to mark their territory."

Her candor is refreshing, and Patrick finds himself thinking that she and Teresa would probably get along well.

Phillips steers the car across some train tracks, and they pull into a gravel parking lot. Patrick recognizes the warehouse to their left from the crime scene pictures. It looks more run-down in person, as though one large gust of wind could knock it over.

They get out of the car, and Phillips grabs her camera. He follows her to the front of the building. "You were part of the team that raided the warehouse?" he asks as they walk.

She nods. "You want me to take you through what happened?"

"Please," says Patrick.

She kneels, grabbing a twig from the ground a sketching a rough outline of the rectangular warehouse in the gravel. "There are three entrances to the building," she says. "One in front, two in back." Phillips marks these with Xs. "The team split up. Most officers were at the main entrance in front, but we stationed others at the two back entrances in case anyone tried to run. I was at the main entrance." She points to her mock diagram. "Maybe two seconds before we entered, we heard one shot and the sound of glass shattering, but we couldn't pinpoint where exactly it came from. Then we started clearing rooms one by one. McCord turned immediately right and went into the first room; I took the adjacent one. As soon as I entered my room, I heard six more rounds. These ones were much closer - they sounded like they were in the next room over, McCord's room, so as soon as I'd cleared my room, I headed toward the shots."

"You heard seven shots total, then?"

Phillips nods, glancing at him. "That wasn't in the report?"

"The report only mentioned the six bullets that hit McCord. There also was no mention of the sound of breaking glass."

Phillips' eyes darken. "The first round didn't hit him. It landed in the wall." She beckons with a finger, and he follows her into the warehouse. He blinks, his eyes adjusting to the lack of light. An overpowering scent of rust hits his nostrils.

Phillips leads him to the room.

"You're telling me there wasn't documentation of this in the report?" she says, gesturing to the wall, where a clear imperfection marks the location of a bullet's impact.

Patrick examines the wall. "Wide range photographs of the room overlap everywhere except for this spot," he says. "If the tech took the picture, it's not there now. This stretch of wall is completely undocumented."

He watches a range of emotions cross Phillips' face: confusion, frustration, and - finally - anger. "I'm assuming there was no mention of the bullet, either, then," she says. "It was lodged in the wall when I first entered the room."

Patrick shakes his head in confirmation. "According to the report, it never happened."

He looks over at the broken window to his right, comparing it to the pictures in his memory palace. "There weren't officers covering the windows, I assume."

"No," agrees Phillips. "That's not standard protocol."

"Is it reasonable to say that the shot you heard as you were entering the warehouse came from outside, shattered the window, and then lodged itself in the wall?"

Phillips steps to his side by the window. "That's what I told Hannigan to write in the report," she says. "Remember, there was broken glass just about where you're standing, and that gives us another line of evidence to support the bullet's trajectory." She takes one look at him and sighs. "The broken glass wasn't documented, was it?

Patrick shakes his head. "There's a picture of this window," he says, "but it must have been taken after the glass was cleaned up."

Phillips turns abruptly, placing her hands on her hips and pacing the length of the room. "There was glass here because I remember stepping on it when the paramedics arrived. And I told Hannigan specifically that the window was busted from the outside. He was taking notes - he should have gotten that right." She groans. "This is more than sloppy police work. Someone is trying to obscure what happened here, and Hannigan's team is involved somehow."

"Yes," says Patrick. "That's certainly what it looks like." He turns around. "Can you describe how you found McCord?"

"McCord's body was here," Phillips says, shaking herself, clearly trying to concentrate. "Just inside the door. He was following protocol, so he would have swept the room like this." She demonstrates the motions. "That is, if he had had time. Whoever shot him was standing here - " She points. " - in the last spot McCord would have swept."

Patrick moves. "So he was shot upon first entering the room."

"Yes."

"If he was following standard protocol, he would have been facing this wall."

"Yes."

"The bullets would have come from this direction." Patrick gestures to his side.

"Without a doubt."

He taps a finger against his lips. "I think the first shot - the missing shot - was fired by an accomplice. Someone situated outside the warehouse, watching. They saw the police approach, and they decided the best way - the fastest way - to give the dealer and buyer a head's up was to shoot into the room." He waves a hand at the bullet hole. "Not the brightest idea, but the shot was high enough on the wall that the shooter could be sure he wouldn't hit anyone. But that begs the question - why didn't the dealer and buyer get out as soon as they heard the shot?"

Phillips gives him a look. "You haven't been in one of these situations before, have you?" she says. "If you're right and the shooter was trying to warn them, the buyer and dealer would have had seconds before McCord entered. Mere seconds isn't really long enough to process what's going on - I'd bet you they heard a shot and immediately ducked away from the window. No one on instinct is going to run _toward_ the direction they just saw a bullet coming from. So they would have moved to the other side of the room. Once they eventually worked out what was going on, there was no time to make it to the window, so their next best option was to take out McCord, so they stepped here, where they would be unseen when he first entered. After McCord was dealt with, they made a break for it through the window. "

"Where they could have slipped away, unseen."

"Yes," she sighs.

"So we can assume we're looking for at least three people. The buyer, the dealer, and the shooter from outside."

"I agree," says Phillips. She begins pacing again. "Regarding the missing evidence," she continues, "the simplest explanation is that some photos were deleted. It'd be easier to delete photos of the scene and remove evidence from a locker than to alter the scene while it's swarming with crime scene techs trying to document every minute detail. My guess is that's what happened. My advice? Techs log every photograph taken at every scene, and they keep backup copies of that list. If Hannigan took the bullet and the broken glass from the evidence locker, he may have taken the log, too, but you can track down the tech who worked the scene that day and get the backup copy. Compare the number of pictures on the log to the number of pictures in the case file. If there are more in the log, you know some have been deleted. That'll give you something concrete when you go to someone higher up to talk about how Hannigan's handled this case."

Phillips begins taking pictures of the bullet hole, and Patrick moves away to allow her to get wider range shots. Eventually, she puts the lens cap back on her camera and sighs again. They walk out together, and Patrick raises his hand to shade his eyes from the blistering sun.

They get into the stifling car, and Phillips blasts the AC.

As she pulls out of the parking lot, she glances over at him. "Be careful with this one, Mr. Jane," she says. "Hannigan - or someone on his team - wanted to cover this up, and if you get caught poking your nose in it, they may come after you next."

Patrick taps his fingers on the seat rest beside him. "I'll tread carefully," he says.

They drive in silence until they're about a mile from headquarters. They're stuck at a traffic light when Phillips says, "I was the first person to reach McCord after he was shot. I applied the tourniquet and put pressure on the carotid."

"There's nothing you could have done," Patrick says immediately.

She nods. "I know." Her shoulders drop a fraction of an inch. "He said one word before he died." She pauses. "'Lisbon.' The name of the cop who should have been given his case but had to decline it for personal reasons." Phillips gives him a knowing look. "Tell her that for me, would you? He was thinking of her as he died. If I were her, I'd want to know."

Patrick swallows against the tightness in his throat. "I'll tell her," he promises.

* * *

He hits the beginning of rush hour as he arrives back in Sacramento, heading directly to the CBI rather than to his apartment. He's the lone car pulling into the parking lot as the office staff make their way home for the night; many of the agents are still working. Patrick hopes that Cho is among them.

He needn't have worried. When he arrives on the floor of the Serious Crimes Unit, he spots Cho at his desk, head down, diligently combing over files. Rigsby is nowhere to be seen.

"Cho," says Patrick, striding into the bullpen.

Cho looks up, his face as impassive as ever. "Jane," he says in acknowledgement.

Patrick fumbles for the flashdrive in his pocket and sets it on top of the open file on Cho's desk.

"What's this?" asks Cho.

"Teresa asked me to look into it."

Cho's poker face cracks for the first time. He raises an eyebrow. "You found something." It's not a question.

Patrick nods.

Cho stands up and crosses his arms over his chest, considering. Then he tucks the flashdrive into his pocket.

"My place, one hour," Cho says finally. "I'll text you the address."


	7. Chapter 7

"Does Lisbon know?"

Cho leans forward from his place on the couch, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasped together. Patrick paces around the living room, taking in the enormous bookshelf filled with classics. Apart from that, the agent's apartment has little in the way of a personal touch, and Patrick wonders if anyone employed at the CBI has time for a life outside of work.

"No," Patrick says. "When she gave me the flashdrive, she told me to come to you if I found anything. I think she didn't want to get her hopes up and then have them dashed if it were a false alarm."

Cho nods. Patrick watches as he weighs his options. "Hannigan's a moron," he says. "But this...this goes beyond idiocy."

"He's trying to cover something up."

Cho gives another terse nod. "No way a bullet hole is overlooked in a report. Same for the broken glass."

"We can't take this to anyone on his team."

"No," Cho agrees. He slams the cover of his laptop down with more force than is necessary, swearing softly. "I don't want this going anywhere near Narcotics, either," he says. "I'm not taking any chances."

"Not to mention the fact that McCord's shooter is familiar with law enforcement protocol."

"That, too." Cho grabs his phone. "We need to bring Rigsby in on this."

* * *

Rigsby arrives thirty minutes later with two pizza boxes, one of which Patrick suspects he plans to eat entirely by himself. But once Patrick starts explaining the walkthrough he'd taken with Phillips, the pizzas remain untouched.

"Damn," says Rigsby, sinking down onto Cho's couch. "You think we should go to Minelli?"

"Don't have much choice," agrees Cho.

Patrick steps forward. "Detective Phillips suggested looking at the photography logs. Might we do that before taking this higher up?"

Cho and Rigsby exchange a look. Rigsby shrugs. "Couldn't hurt."

"Agreed," says Cho.

Rigsby stands, grabbing his keys and the pizzas. "We're giving testimony in court tomorrow morning at eight," he says. "We don't have a lot of time."

"Then let's move," says Cho.

Patrick follows him out the door, Rigsby at his heels. "Tick, tock," he mutters under his breath.

* * *

Cho unlocks the storage locker where evidence for casework is kept in the basement of CBI Headquarters, holding the door open for Rigsby and Patrick. Patrick flips on the lights, revealing an overcrowded room stuffed to capacity with shelves containing evidence boxes, none of which seem to be in any particular order.

"This way," says Rigsby, moving to the left. The lightbulb flickers above him, and Patrick and Cho follow closely behind. "What was the date?"

Patrick recites it, and Rigsby searches through the boxes, eventually locating one on the top shelf. He hands it to Cho, who grabs a rusty-looking chair with squeaky wheels at the end of the aisle and sets the box on it. Cho lifts the lid and starts digging, and Patrick looks over his shoulder, feeling like his heart has dropped out of his chest when he sees how little evidence is actually stored in the box.

"Six rounds," says Cho. "All from McCord's body. No mention of your missing bullet."

"Anything else?" asks Rigsby.

"Copies of chain of custody forms," says Cho, holding up several pieces of paper. "All for blood spatter samples." He flips through the papers. "These samples went off to the lab. All were McCord's."

"Not surprising, seeing as he was the one shot," says Rigsby.

Cho looks as emotional as Patrick has ever seen him. "Damn it," he says, slapping the lid back on the box. "No hard copy of the log. No chain of custody for the missing bullet or the broken glass."

Rigsby glances up at the other boxes. "Maybe they were put in another bin by mistake?"

Cho scoffs. "Right."

"I'm just saying we should check." Rigsby replaces the box where he'd taken it down and grabs several other boxes, all of which have dates within a few months of McCord's murder. Patrick sits down with the box Rigsby hands to him, opening the lid with shaking hands and starting to comb through evidence.

It takes him seven seconds to realize something is wrong.

"Cho, Rigsby," he says. "Half of the cocaine here is missing."

He's met with a horrified stare from Rigsby and a raised eyebrow from Cho. They both swear at the same time. "Rigsby, check your evidence log," orders Cho, searching for his own.

"Some of mine is missing, too," says Rigsby a minute later. "Maybe like one tenth of it is gone? Less than in Jane's case, but…" He trails off. "Cho?"

"Same," he says. "It's not as bad as Jane's, but not all of it's there."

"Someone is lifting coke from evidence," says Rigsby, appalled. "An agent from Narc, maybe?"

"It's related to McCord's case," Patrick says immediately.

The light flickers again, and Cho looks over at him. "No such thing as coincidence," he agrees. "Let's start taking notes. We need to document every case with evidence of tampering."

 _No such thing as coincidence._

Something clicks.

"Whoever was stealing the cocaine," says Patrick slowly, putting his box to the side. "Could they have sold it back to drug dealers?"

"Yeah," says Rigsby. "They could keep it or sell it. Or both."

It's a hunch. And a long shot. He puts his odds of being right at maybe thirty percent. Tops. "I need to see every detective over in Narcotics," says Patrick, calling on feigned confidence and hoping Rigsby and Cho don't see straight through him. "When will they arrive tomorrow morning?"

"What do you mean?" says Rigsby, a wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows. "You only want to _see_ them? Do you want to ask them anything?"

Patrick shakes his head. "I don't need to ask any questions."

"You going to read their minds or something?" Rigsby looks skeptical.

"Or something," confirms Patrick.

Cho rolls his eyes. "Narcotics had a big bust this afternoon," he says, taking pity on Patrick. "It's all hands on deck. They should still be in the bullpen processing perps. Second floor."

"Even at this hour?"

"Crime doesn't sleep," says Cho.

"Excellent," says Patrick, standing up and straightening his jacket. He turns, catching Rigsby shrug out of the corner of his eye.

Patrick takes the stairs two at a time, stopping inside the door leading to the second floor bullpen to catch his breath. He runs a hand through his hair and checks his badge, which still lays over his heart where he'd clipped it to his jacket this morning.

Then he pushes open the door.

Despite the lateness of the evening, the bullpen is bustling with activity. All interrogation rooms are in use, and Patrick swerves in and out of a swarm of detectives as he walks down the hall. He checks each of their hands as he passes.

Several other cops are seated at desks in the bullpen proper, and Patrick makes his way there. Though the overall geometry of the room is identical to that of the Serious Crimes Unit, there are more desks crammed into the same amount of space. Patrick breezes by each until he finds himself staring at a bulky, auburn-haired man seated at a desk near the window. Patrick immediately notices his dilated pupils and has him cold read in a matter of seconds.

 _Early forties, divorced, chainsmoker, addict._

Patrick extends a hand. "Patrick Jane," he says loudly, and the man looks up from the paperwork he's completing.

"Can I help you?" he asks, his tone making clear he wants to do anything but.

Patrick doesn't drop his hand. "I'm a new hire. A consultant. I'll be working closely with you on a case in the future, and I wanted to introduce myself."

The man raises a ginger eyebrow. "Shane Cross," he says dubiously, raising his arm, and Patrick's eyes flash down to his fingertips before they shake hands.

Patrick grins. "Looking forward to working with you, Agent Cross," he says, dropping the man's hand unceremoniously and making his way out of the bullpen.

* * *

"I know who killed McCord," says Patrick, announcing his return to the evidence locker, and Cho and Rigsby look up at him from their place on the floor. Patrick taps one thumb against the other in nervous agitation. "Teresa said McCord wasn't originally scheduled to work the day of the raid. He switched shifts with someone. What if it was because that someone had an appointment to sell some cocaine? Except he couldn't have known he was about to sell drugs to a dealer who Malibu PD had their eye on, and he couldn't have known that MPD would call the CBI for more officers, so he was caught by surprise when the raid occurred. He had the training to know where to wait when McCord entered the room to clear it."

"It's a stretch," says Cho.

"I like it," admits Rigsby at the same time.

Patrick continues. "The shooter left his gun at the scene. Why would he do that unless he knew there were no prints on it to be found?"

Cho closes the lid to his box. "That's why you wanted to check out Narcotics. To look at their hands."

Patrick nods. "And one Agent Shane Cross lacks fingerprints. My guess is he burned them off somehow. Couldn't risk his prints showing up on any of the drugs he resold."

Rigsby groans, shifting positions to stretch his legs. "But how does Hannigan fit into this?"

Patrick taps his fingers again. "I'm not sure," he admits.

"Hannigan has anger management issues," supplies Cho. "It's gotten him into trouble before. If Cross found something on him, Cross could use it as blackmail - get Hannigan to tamper with the case." He checks his watch, debating. "Call Minelli," he says to Rigsby. "Tell him to meet us at HQ in an hour." He rubs his eyes. "Tell him it's a favor for Lisbon and that it's important. Then go to the bullpen and see if there's a digital copy of the photo log for McCord's case on the CBI server. Jane and I will make our way through as many of these as we can before Minelli gets here."

Rigsby grabs his phone to make the call, and Cho and Patrick turn back to the collection of boxes before them.

"Let's nail this son of a bitch," says Cho, and they get to work.

* * *

Rigsby returns fifteen minutes later. "Minelli's on his way."

"No log?" asks Cho.

Rigsby shakes his head. "No log," he confirms. "No photographs of broken glass or the bullet hole, either. The other photos are still there."

Cho sighs. "I got a favor to call in," he says, standing up and searching for his phone. He finds it under a bag of cocaine, and picks it up, unperturbed.

A beat cop friend of Cho's, who makes it his business to know everyone else's business, knows the name of the lead crime scene tech on McCord's case. While Cho tries to contact her, Rigsby orders delivery from a twenty-four hour donut shop across the street. Cho looks at him in what Patrick thinks must be exasperation - it's difficult to tell with Cho - and Rigsby says innocently, "What?"

It takes several more minutes to get a hold of the tech, but she eventually returns Cho's call. Catherine, the tech, had worked on the log on her personal computer and saved a copy before transferring it to the CBI server. She sends the log via email to Cho.

"Thanks, Cat," says Cho. "I owe you." He ends the call and immediately starts cleaning up the evidence, placing drugs back into their proper boxes. "We've got enough for now - Minelli will be here soon."

After the evidence locker looks approximately the same as it had when they'd first entered it earlier that evening, they make their way to the Serious Crimes floor. Cho sits at the nearest desk with a computer and opens the first email in his inbox, clicking on the attached file.

"Six hundred and twenty-seven pictures," he says. "Jane, how many photographs were in the flashdrive Lisbon gave you?"

"Six hundred and ten," Patrick says automatically.

Cho cracks a smile. "We've got him."

* * *

Rigsby is eating the last of his donuts when Minelli arrives ten minutes later, looking like he's aged years in the days since Patrick had seen him last. "You have something about McCord's death, then?" he says, opening the door to his office and gesturing the three of them inside. He follows, closing the door behind him. Rigsby and Cho sit in the chairs in front of the desk, and Patrick remains standing as Minelli sits as well.

Cho explains the evidence quickly, his terse style communicating the facts efficiently and without bias.

Once he's finished, Minelli leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. They wait in silence for a minute while he thinks. "I need to order an investigation into Hannigan and his team," he decides. "They'll be suspended without pay in the meantime. As for the Narcotics angle…"

"I have a favor to call in, so I can get the warrants tonight," says Rigsby. Minelli nods.

Patrick wonders vaguely how many favors Rigsby and Cho have lined up or if they're using them all tonight. He suspects it's the latter.

Minelli's clock ticks behind them, sounding impossibly loud in the silence. Minelli looks over at Patrick. "Well, Jane, I trust you're to blame for this? Seeing as Lisbon's team was told to stay away from the case?"

"Technically," says Patrick, "I'm not yet part of Teresa's team. I don't start work for another three weeks."

Minelli gives him a wry smile. "Just don't expect to get paid for it. Technically," he says, imitating Patrick's tone, "you're not on payroll for another three weeks."

* * *

The next few hours pass in a flurry of activity. Rigsby successfully obtains the warrants to search Cross' car and home; Cho leads the team that heads to Cross' apartment, and Rigsby and a pair of crime scene techs take the car. Rigsby's search turns up empty, but Cho hits payday, finding a stash of cocaine hidden under, predictably, Cross' mattress.

After, Patrick and Rigsby meet Cho in the lobby of CBI headquarters on the first floor. "Cross still here?" asks Cho as his team of officers and crime scene techs move on ahead, carrying cameras and brown evidence bags.

Rigsby nods. "It's a late night for Narcotics," he confirms.

Cho turns to Patrick. "You want to be there for the arrest?"

Patrick just nods.

"Then let's go," says Cho, and the others follow him up a flight of stairs.

It's somewhat anticlimactic, Patrick thinks, after the frenzy of progress made on the case in the past twenty-four hours. Cross doesn't put up a fight, though he does send an icy glare Patrick's way as Cho and Rigsby lead him past. The rest of the Narcotics bullpen looks on, clearly shaken, as the Serious Crimes Unit walks away.

Minutes later, Cross has been locked in Interrogation Room 1, and Minelli, Cho, Rigsby, and Patrick convene in the observation room.

"We need a confession," says Minelli. "Right now, all we can prove is that he was taking drugs from evidence. We need to be able to process him for murder."

Patrick has been watching Cross through the mirror, listening to the three men talk as he does so. He looks over at Cho. "Tell him we have the other shooter," he says. "Tell him his friend is confessing right now."

"We don't have the other shooter," says Rigsby immediately.

Patrick grins. "But Cross doesn't know that." He pivots to face the other men. "If you tell him we have the other shooter, he'll cut a deal." He pauses. "Wouldn't hurt to say that Hannigan's taken a deal as well to testify about the blackmail. And if that doesn't work, remind him that he'll be needing his next fix soon and detox is hell on earth."

Minelli nods. "Cho, take Jane and get that confession. Rigsby, I have a task for you. If you could come with me to my office."

They leave, the door swinging shut behind them, and Cho gestures to Patrick. "Ready?"

"No," Patrick admits. "But let's do this."

Cho nods in approval.

* * *

It takes a great deal of wheedling and needling, but a half hour later, the confession is signed. Cho escorts Cross out of the interrogation room, taking him down to holding, and Patrick stares at the signed confession in front of him. For the first time, he feels the effects of two travel days and a long night - he checks his watch, noting that if he gets out of here in the next hour or so, he can still catch five hours of sleep before Teresa is set to pick him up tomorrow.

 _Teresa._

How the hell are they supposed to break the news to her? He assumes she'll want to know right away, now that they have a confession.

Patrick scrubs a hand over his face and takes a deep breath, pushing his chair back from the table and standing up. He looks over at the mirror, not surprised to see a mess of blond hair and day old stubble. But then the light changes in the observation room, and he stops dead. He can see through the mirror.

Teresa stands before him.

She's not crying. She's just standing there, gazing at him, and he thinks she finally looks _free._

His feet direct him out the door and towards the observation room seemingly of their own accord. When he steps into the room, it's dark again, but Teresa's arms find him despite this.

"It's over?" she whispers, tightening her grip.

"It's done," he confirms. He weaves his fingers through her hair.

She stands on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear. " _Thank you_ ," she breathes.

He can't find words, so he just rubs a soothing hand up and down her spine.

A minute later, she steps back, and he regrets the loss of contact immediately.

"Be my partner," she says suddenly, imploringly. "I haven't been able to trust anyone in so long," she says, her voice low. "But I trust you. I want you watching my back in the field."

He looks at her reverently, managing to get out, "I'd be...I'd be honored to call myself your partner."

She smiles. "Good. That's settled, then."

Patrick holds out his hand. "Partners in crime?"

She grabs it, and her smile widens, making him weak. "Partners in crime... _fighting_ ," she corrects.

He supposes he can live with that and tells her so, and they shake on it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Trigger warning at end of chapter, placed there rather than here to avoid spoiling plot points. If you have a trigger, you might want to check that out before reading.**

* * *

After Teresa tracks down Cho to thank him, Patrick walks her to her car. He's hesitant to let her go, fretting slightly at the thought of her going home alone. But he can't possibly justify asking her and Lizzie to stay with him for the remainder of the night, and he calms knowing he'll see them both in the morning.

There's no moon, and it's impossible to see the stars against the bright glare of the city lights. Patrick walks by her side as they approach her mustang.

"Rigsby's watching Lizzie?" asks Patrick.

Teresa nods. "Minelli asked him to come get me," she says, stopping to lean against the side of her car. He is reminded suddenly of the night they met, and she meets his eye and smiles, clearly thinking along the same lines as him.

Patrick clears his throat. "Listen, Teresa," he says. "I know we made plans in the morning, but if you need...if you need time alone, I understand."

She's still smiling, a little softer now. "I only need enough time to get a decent amount of sleep," she says. "How about we push breakfast back to brunch? Can I pick you up at ten-thirty instead of eight?"

"Absolutely," Patrick says. "I'm looking forward to it."

She looks down, and he swears he can see her cheeks color slightly, but in the darkness it's difficult to say for sure. "Good," she says quietly, almost shyly.

He fumbles with his keys, searching for a reason not to leave her, and when she looks up at him, he finds it.

"What is it?" he asks, reading her face.

"I guess I need to get used to that," she says. "Having you read my mind."

He shrugs. "It'll save us some time," he tries to joke, but it falls a little flat.

Teresa takes a breath. "Would you mind going over the case with me at some point?"

"If it's what you want, of course I'll take you through it."

She lets out the breath. "I need to know," she says. "I need...closure."

Patrick nods. "Then after brunch, we'll put Lizzie down for a nap and go over the whole thing." He reaches out to place a hand on her elbow. "Teresa, speaking of which, there's something Detective Phillips wanted me to tell you, and I promised her I would."

Teresa's eyes practically glow in the dark, and like a moth to a flame, he's drawn in.

"She was with him when he died. " Patrick swallows. "He said one word: Lisbon. Phillips wanted you to know he was...he was thinking of you."

Teresa grips his arm, and he reaches out with his other hand to steady her. "I'm okay," she whispers. "I just…" She trails off. "God, I wish I'd been able to say goodbye," she says finally.

"He knew how you felt about him, Teresa. How could he not?"

"I hope he did."

"He knew," Patrick says firmly. "Trust me, he knew."

She nods, squeezing his forearms. "You're going to make a great partner, you know that?"

"We're going to make a great team," he says.

She shifts slightly to give him one last, quick hug. "Yes," she says. "We are."

* * *

Teresa is nervous and antsy when he opens the door to her car the next morning. They've scarcely pulled out of the parking lot when Patrick says, "Turn around."

"What?" she asks, her voice slightly higher than normal.

"You're worried about talking over the case, and you'll only work yourself up more during brunch. Let's go back to my place, and I'll talk you through the case and make breakfast for you at the same time."

"Patrick," she says. "This was supposed to be _me_ taking _you_ out to thank you - "

"We can do that another day. Right now, I want to calm you down, and the best way to do that is to finish talking about what you're dreading." He softens his voice. "Turn around, Teresa."

She switches lanes and turns at the next intersection, heading back to his apartment complex. He directs her to park next to his Citroen, neglecting to mention that he's purchased a parking permit for her, reserving this spot as hers. Before she's cut the engine, he opens his door and circles around the car to get Lizzie. Teresa shuts off the car and steps out, shutting the door behind her. He takes her hand, carrying Lizzie with his other arm, and pulls her along with him into the apartment complex lobby.

Lizzie is still sleeping by the time they enter his flat, so he carefully sets her in her bassinet and pulls Teresa into the kitchen. "Come on," he says, grabbing flour, sugar, shortening, and several other miscellaneous items from his cabinets as she watches.

"What are you making?" she asks, leaning her hip on the kitchen island and crossing her arms over her chest.

"Beignets," he says, pulling over a barstool-style chair and guiding her to sit down. "Comfort food."

It's then that he realizes he's doing this as much for him as he is for her. His hands are shaking, anticipating how much this conversation has the potential to hurt her. He needs something to concentrate on to get him through this. He turns toward the stove and begins to talk.

By the time he's done, Teresa has joined him at the kitchen island, where he's sprinkling confectioners' sugar over the warm beignets. He feels her twine her arm around his and lay her head on his shoulder. He turns his head to kiss her temple.

"Do you have any questions?" he asks, putting the sugar aside.

"No," Teresa whispers. "You were...very thorough." She sighs, and Patrick watches as a drop of moisture falls onto one of the beignets.

"Come here," says Patrick, turning and pulling her into his arms. She goes willingly.

The beignets are cool by the time he feels composed enough to speak. "Are you okay?" he murmurs.

Her answer is steady. "No," she says. "But I will be."

She pulls away slightly to look at him, and her brow furrows.

"You're crying," Teresa says.

And so he is. _Huh._

Patrick blinks. "You're sad," he says in explanation. "And when you're unhappy, I'm less happy."

Teresa reaches up with graceful fingers to wipe the tears from the corners of his eyes. "You make me happy," she says pointedly.

His lips part. "I...I do?"

On some level he feels like he knows this, but hearing her say the words aloud floors him.

"You make me breakfast when I'm upset. You held my hand when I gave birth. You held _me_ after my nightmare. And you solved the case that nearly broke me. So, yes, Patrick Jane, you make me happy. Sometimes ridiculously so."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," she says, flashing him a wide grin. "That's how I know I'm going to be okay."

Patrick feels himself get lightheaded and knows it has nothing to do with his lack of sleep. "Let's stay in today," he says. "I have enough food here to feed a small army, and I recently invested in a DVD collection. I know you like old movies."

She grabs the tray of beignets and then his hand. "You've got yourself a deal, partner."

* * *

An hour later, the only remnant of the beignets is the powdered sugar that covers his coffee table and a good portion of their clothing. _Perhaps not the most elegant of breakfast foods_ , thinks Patrick. But the mess had been worth it, especially considering it had given him an excuse to wipe some of the sugar away from the corner of Teresa's mouth.

Now, they're sprawled on his couch watching _Mr. Smith Goes to Washington_ , Teresa's feet propped up on the coffee table; Patrick is lying prone, his head in her lap, her hand in his hair. He's not quite sure exactly how this happened, and when her fingers begin to massage his scalp he wonders if Teresa could be persuaded to spend the rest of eternity on this couch with him.

"How did you know I like old movies?" Teresa asks, and it sounds almost as though she's humming.

"You like jazz, and the bookshelves in your condo are filled with classics rather than popular modern fiction. I figured there was a good chance your taste in movies was equally sophisticated."

"So you're an old movie buff as well?"

He turns his head to look up at her, and she smiles at him.

"Not at all," he says. "I didn't own a television before moving to Sacramento. I mostly read in my spare time. Since I didn't go to high school, I felt like I had a lot of catching up to do."

"Come on," she says, rolling her eyes. "Your IQ is probably north of genius."

He shrugs. "A lot of what I know comes from an inferiority complex. My experience in traditional schools was practically nonexistent. When I'd meet other children who came to the carnival, I loathed feeling less intelligent than they were. So I read everything I could, and I taught myself Spanish and Latin."

"Seriously?"

"En serio. I'm in the process of learning French, but meeting you kind of threw that out the window. I haven't practiced in weeks." He grins.

"What other skills are you hiding?" asks Teresa, brushing a couple of errant curls away from his forehead.

"I don't know if this is a skill, exactly," he says, "but I've always liked building things. Fixing things. Tinkering, I guess. I'm fairly good with cars, and one day I'd like to try to build a house." He considers. "I might start with something smaller, though, like a cabin."

She returns her attention to his scalp, and he practically moans in pleasure. "And they say the perfect man doesn't exist," she murmurs.

He can't stop himself from tensing automatically. She reads this as embarrassment.

In reality, it's guilt.

He's tried to make himself better - to make himself better for _her_. He's told her some of his darkest secrets. Secrets he hasn't brought to light for anyone else.

Her words remind him it's not good enough. He's still a conman at his core.

He closes his eyes, choosing not to respond. "What about you?" he asks somewhat shakily instead, trying to push the guilt away. "What are you hiding?"

He doesn't have the luxury of reading her expression, so he pays attention to the way her fingers tense slightly in his hair. It takes her a while to respond, but he's patient, and eventually he feels her muscles relax.

"I was having a difficult time opening up to the therapist I'm seeing," she admits. "I'm naturally an introvert, and talking about Eric just felt like tearing my ribcage apart and leaving my heart open to the elements. So my therapist suggested I start writing. She didn't care what I wrote, just that I did. And it...it was easy."

He opens his eyes.

"You're surprised," she says.

"No," he says. "It 'felt like tearing my ribcage apart and leaving my heart open to the elements.' You even speak like a writer. It's like poetry come to life."

Teresa blushes. "Thanks."

"What do you write?"

"Poems," she says. "I'll share some of them with you the next time we're at my place."

They way she avoids his eyes catches his attention. Patrick smiles impishly, forgetting about his guilt momentarily. "Are any of them about me?"

"Maybe." But the way her blush intensifies gives him confirmation. She flicks his nose lightly with her index finger, and he reaches up to grab her hand, resting their intertwined fingers on his chest.

Her other hand begins to play with his hair, and he smiles.

* * *

As soon as the door closes behind her, the guilt returns, knocking him to the floor. He drops to one knee, drowning, and knows he can't avoid it any longer.

* * *

He knocks on her door approximately three minutes after ten that evening.

Teresa appears, her eyes narrowed in confusion as she takes in the set of his shoulders, the darkness he knows must show on his face and in his eyes.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

Patrick stuffs his hands in his pockets so she won't see them shaking. "Earlier today, you didn't ask me what I was hiding," he notes.

Her expression only becomes more perplexed. "Yes, I did."

He shakes his head, and a warm breeze brings the smell of fresh mulch toward them. "You asked me about any skills I was hiding. You didn't ask me _what_ I was hiding." He looks down, then back up at her. "You should have."

Teresa steps back and gestures for him to come inside, closing the door behind him. He doesn't step out of his shoes.

"Patrick?"

He turns around, feeling like the narrow walls of the entryway are closing in on him.

"I, uh...I conceal things for a living," he begins. "Or, at least, I used to. And as you know, I was very, _very_ good at what I did."

Teresa takes a step toward him, frowning, and he decides he'd pay any price in the world if he could guarantee his next words wouldn't hurt her.

"And though I've told you just about all of my secrets, there's one thing I've concealed from you." He shrugs out of his suit jacket, tossing it on the table next to the door. He reaches for the button on the wrist of his dress shirt. "Last night, when I was going through evidence of previous Narcotics cases...that wasn't the first time I've come into contact with cocaine."

He pops the button and rolls his sleeve up, exposing the crook of his elbow. He holds his arm out to her, and she steps to him tentatively, reaching for him. He watches her face fall as she takes in the scarred skin.

"I'm an addict," he murmurs.

Teresa grabs his other arm and unbuttons his sleeve, pushing up the fabric to reveal similar marks.

"None of these are recent," she whispers.

"No," he agrees. "I stopped about thirteen months ago."

"When did you start?" she asks.

"October 20th, 1999."

She looks up at him, still holding his arm. "You remember the exact date?"

"I'll never forget it."

Patrick feels her fingertips brush over the scars, and he breathes in sharply.

"Why did you do it?"

"Why does anyone do drugs?" he says, breathing out roughly. "Life was so monotonous, so stagnant, so...so _boring._ I didn't know what it was like to feel, and I wanted to. I wanted to feel _something_."

Teresa leans toward him. "The first night we met, you said you were intimately acquainted with trouble," she says. "This is what you meant, isn't it?"

He nods.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He would have preferred it if she'd sounded heartbroken. Instead, she sounds emotionless, and this is infinitely worse.

He chokes on his next words. "Because you are an angel incarnate, and I didn't want to think about all the reasons I'm not worthy of you. And I was ashamed. I _am_ ashamed."

"Is that why you stopped?"

"No," he says. "I stopped because one time I overdid it and couldn't read any of my clients. I couldn't think, and it scared me."

A worry line appears between her eyebrows. "Nothing in your background check indicated time spent in detox."

"Because there wasn't any."

"You detoxed on your own?" She sounds incredulous, and he doesn't blame her.

"Worst experience of my life," he murmurs.

His heart nearly stops when she flings her arms around him. A second later, one of her hands has found its way to the nape of his neck, and she cradles his head. "Thank God you're alive," she breathes, and he returns the embrace, wondering why she hasn't kicked him out of her home.

Teresa pulls back, and she reaches for his arm again, examining his elbow. "Are there any other...scars?"

"Only there," says Patrick. "Nowhere else."

He can tell she doesn't know whether or not to believe him, and he feels her pulling away.

"I'll prove it to you," he says gruffly, bending slightly to bring his eyes level to hers.

"You'll have to," she says, and his heart breaks. "Come with me," she orders, leading him to the bathroom behind the kitchen. She flips on the light, and he begins to unbutton his shirt, avoiding her eyes. The fabric drops to the floor, revealing skin made pallid by the harsh light. Teresa steps forward, running her hands over his upper arms, examining every inch of his bare skin.

"Femoral veins," she says tersely, and he pulls off his socks then reaches for his belt, the fly on his slacks.

Mercifully, she can inspect the veins without him having to remove his boxers. She checks his feet and toes for good measure, and when she stands straight up again he can practically feel her relief.

"You weren't lying."

"Not to you," he manages to get out. "Never to you."

She hands him his slacks, and while he puts these on she collects his shirt from the floor. She holds the shirt as he slips his arms in the sleeves, then buttons the cuffs as he buttons the front.

She trails her hand down his forearm, and he wonders if she realizes what she's doing. "You said you are an addict," she whispers. "Not _were._ _Are._ "

"As I know you're aware, addictions aren't ever cured. So, yes, I'm an addict. Present tense."

The fluorescent light allows him to see everything, and this makes it harder.

"Are you getting help?"

"In Malibu I wasn't. But after you left my place today, I signed up for meetings and went to my first one. Then I came straight here."

"But you're clean."

"I haven't used in thirteen months," Patrick assures her.

"At least your drug test confirmed you don't have anything in your system," Teresa says. "Have you been checked out by a physician? Is there anything you need to be worried about, health-wise?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing's wrong," he says. "Physically, that is. I was lucky."

"Psychologically?"

"It was always difficult for me to maintain relationships. While I was on cocaine, it was impossible. Things haven't gotten much better since I stopped, but I'm trying."

Teresa lets out a deep breath. "I'm glad you're okay," she whispers. "I'm glad you're getting help."

"I should have told you. Teresa, I'm…" He swallows, fighting against the moisture pooling in his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"I know."

He wants to drop to his knees and beg for her, but he's not sure that would actually help his case.

"And I would never, _never_ do anything to endanger you. Or Lizzie. I need you to know that. _Please._ "

"I know you would never do something like that intentionally." Her tone is flat, and he knows she's chosen her words carefully.

He can't hold back the tears after this. "I should go. You need time to process all this."

She nods, looking away, and he wonders if she's succumbed to tears as well.

"I'll support your decision, whatever that is." He knows she may retract his job offer, may retract any offer of friendship she'd once extended to him. Hell, she's law enforcement. Will she press charges against him? He wonders vaguely what the statute of limitations is for recreational drug use.

 _Damn it._

He'd sworn he was going to protect her.

She doesn't say another word as they walk to the front door and he slips his shoes back on, and he can't bring himself to look up as he steps over the threshold. The door shuts behind him, squeaking slightly, and he's walking back to his car before he realizes he's left his suit jacket inside her condo.

He can't bring himself to go back for it.

* * *

There are two text messages waiting for him when he arrives back in his apartment.

 _I need a little time._

He wipes at his eyes, and he feels a phantom pain in the crook of his elbows, like a thousand pinpricks piercing his skin.

 _But if you're ever thinking about starting again, call me. Please._

He sets the phone down and sinks onto the couch, smelling cinnamon and feeling another phantom pain, this one exquisitely more agonizing than the last.

* * *

 **Trigger warning: mentions of drug use and abuse.**


	9. Chapter 9

His second round of detox is worse than his first.

The smell of cinnamon gradually fades from his apartment, and he hasn't heard the sound of her ringtone in over a week. But she doesn't wash out of his system the way that cocaine had. Her voice is strong and sure in his memory palace, and when he closes his eyes he sees constellations not of stars but of her freckles that he'd faithfully memorized while holding her in his arms.

It's torture.

But he doesn't reach out to her, wanting to respect her boundaries. She'd asked for time, and it is the least he can give her.

Patrick replays their time together, debating when he should have told her. He realizes eventually that there's never a good time to come clean about finally being clean - there are only bad times. He'd just happened to pick a spectacularly bad time.

He scrubs a hand over his face.

Feeling anxious, he slips on his shoes and books it out of his apartment, needing to escape. An internal compass leads him on autopilot to the park where Teresa had begun to teach him self defense, and he nearly crumbles when he walks by the spot where she'd quite literally left him breathless.

Clouds begin to roll in quickly, threatening the first storm since he'd moved to Sacramento. Patrick speedwalks home, and he jogs the last few blocks when droplets of rain begin to fall.

He passes his Citroen on the way inside and does a double take - there's a piece of paper tucked underneath the windshield wipers.

Lightning pierces the sky as he reaches for the paper, and he tucks it inside his jacket just as the downpour begins. He races inside, taking the stairs instead of the elevator, and shrugs out of his sodden jacket when he steps inside his apartment.

Then he opens the folded paper with trembling fingers, dripping water onto the floor. Teresa's handwriting greets him.

 _your laughter is light_

 _your smile the sun_

 _two pieces just right_

 _and i Come undone._

 _your warm Arms are wings_

 _around me divine_

 _and the heavens wiLL sing_

 _when your hand touches MinE._

He reads the poem three times before realizing some letters are capitalized. He's shivering by this point, and his mind is hazy with hope, so it takes him longer than it should to get her message.

 _Call me._

Patrick fumbles for his phone, which slips through his shaky hands and crashes to the floor. The screen cracks, but he flips it open and presses the first number on speed dial. Mercifully, the call goes through.

Teresa picks up on the first ring, and he knows she'd been waiting for his call.

"Patrick?"

" _Teresa._ "

He hears her breathe. "Can we talk?"

"Yes, of course," he says.

There's a knock at his door.

He turns around and flings it open to reveal Teresa, her jade eyes tentative. She's holding her Blackberry to her ear, and as she takes him in, she ends the call and slips the phone into the pocket of her blazer.

"Hey," she says quietly.

"Hi," he nearly sobs, blinking rapidly to dispel tears.

She moves almost uncomfortably close, looking up at him with scrutinizing eyes. He realizes she's checking if his pupils are dilated, and he swallows nervously.

Seemingly satisfied, she steps back. "I just came from Minelli's house," she says, and he remembers that today is Saturday. "He's watching Lizzie for a couple hours," she adds. "I was thinking maybe we could...maybe we could work through this?"

He steps aside to let her pass, offering to take her umbrella, which he sets down to dry near the coat closet. "Can I get you anything?" he asks, his voice hoarse. He hasn't spoken much in the past week.

Teresa smiles tightly. "I'm okay," she says, and he pulls out a chair at the kitchen table for her. They sit. She leans forward and clasps her hands in front of her. He recognizes the posture from the interrogation videos she'd showed him back in Malibu, and he feels his pulse spike.

"How was your week?" she asks.

"I went to my meetings and met my sponsor," he says. "His name is Michael. He encouraged me to tell you about him."

"You talked about me?" asks Teresa, and her impassive cop exterior flickers for a second.

He splays his fingers on the table in a gesture similar to one he would use when revealing the result of a stage trick. "You're the most important person in my life, and I was worried I'd never see you again. Of course I told him about you."

Teresa looks down at her hands. "Did the meetings help?"

"I didn't expect them to, but, uh...yeah, I think they did. I've never had a support network to talk to about this, and...I needed it more than I realized."

She raises her head to lock eyes with him. "You can count me among them, you know. Your support network."

Patrick doesn't try to hide the tear that drops from the corner of his eye.

"That means…" His throat tightens, and he tries again. "That means more to me than I know how to say."

She digs in her pocket for her phone and places it on the table between them. "My Blackberry is programmed to ignore all calls except those from Minelli, Cho, and Rigsby after ten in the evening until six in the morning. I made another exception for your number. That means whenever you call me, my phone will ring, even if it's on silent. If you ever need me, I'll be there."

He picks up her phone with shaking fingers, holding it with something akin to reverence. He sets the phone back down again and drops his head into his hands, scrubbing his hands over his face and wiping away the moisture there.

"Patrick," she says gently, and he looks up. "I don't think of you any differently because you are an addict. But I think _better_ of you because you're a recovering addict."

He gulps down a breath, feeling his chest begin to heave.

"How does - " He struggles with the words. " - my addiction change things?"

"I'm here for you," Teresa assures him. "And I trust you. It's the cocaine I don't trust. And I need to be sure you don't pose a danger to my daughter before I allow you to see her again. So I think it's best if - at least for a while - I visit you alone for the foreseeable future."

He nods. "I understand. And I agree."

"I talked to Minelli. You're not in any legal trouble - I haven't seen any signs of drugs in this apartment or in your home back in Malibu, and since your drug test was clean, we wouldn't have a case anyway." She leans back, opening her hands, her body language similarly open. "Minelli was seriously impressed with how you closed Eric's case," she continues. "And he doesn't get impressed easily. He thinks, like I do, that you could help us close a lot more cases. But we can't overlook this."

Patrick looks away.

"Law enforcement agencies can't hire anyone who's used illegal substances in the past year. Since your last score was thirteen months ago, we're technically in the clear. However, there is the matter of you not being upfront with us about your past history. Hiring committees are forgiving of just about anything as long as you are honest about it at the beginning."

"Which I wasn't," says Patrick.

"Right," Teresa said. "So Minelli and I have proposed a compromise. Your financial situation is stable enough that you can survive the rest of your life without working, I assume?"

Patrick nods.

"Then we'd like you to volunteer your services as a consultant for a few months. Your involvement in cases would be essentially the same as a paid employee; you just won't have access to the evidence locker or CBI secure server. In six months or so, we can reevaluate and see if this is working for all of us. A permanent job offer may be made to you at that time."

He looks up, floored.

"Does that sound okay?" Teresa asks.

"It's far better than I deserve," Patrick admits.

Teresa leans across the table to place a hand over his. "You know what my first thought was when we met?" she asks.

He shakes his head.

"I thought you looked like an angel," says Teresa. "With your golden curls and your...your dazzling smile. And your charm." She takes a slow breath, and he marvels at her composure. "And then, when you didn't leave my side, I started thinking that maybe you were one. And not just any angel. _My_ angel. My guardian angel. Mine, and Lizzie's. I didn't know anyone was capable of that kind of devotion."

She looks at him like no one ever has.

"But you're human, and you bleed - just like I do. You have your weakness like I have mine. You said I was an angel incarnate, but I'm not. And neither are you. We're a little broken, a little lost."

He can feel her warmth radiate into his chilled skin.

"And if you get a little lost again," Teresa continues, "I'll find you, just like you found me on that road in Malibu. I'll be there to guide you."

"Partners?" he croaks.

She smiles. "Partners." She squeezes his hand. "If you think you're going to start, I want you to call me. Anytime. And I'll be there. If you start using, I want you to call me. I want to help you. _Promise me, Patrick_."

It's the easiest vow he's ever made.

"I promise."

She nods, satisfied. "I'll have to tell Cho and Rigsby at some point because I don't want you working cases with ties to Narcotics with them unaware."

"I understand."

"And I reserve the right to check you for scars."

"Teresa Lisbon, are you asking me to strip for you?"

She swats his arm and laughs. "Jackass," she says, pulling away.

"How about this?" he says. "We'll do weekly checks. That way you can keep tabs on me and make sure I haven't slipped. And I'll get you into contact with my sponsor so you can check if I'm going to my meetings."

"That sounds acceptable." She breathes out and allows her walls to fall. "You were using for five years," she whispers. "If you had OD'd on just one of those occasions…"

"I'm going to stay clean, Teresa. I've never had more incentive to keep that promise than I do now."

"If there's something about a case that triggers you…"

"I'll let you know."

She nods, and they sit in silence for several seconds.

Eventually, curiosity gets the better of him. "You said you still trust me." He tilts his head to the side slightly. "Why?"

Teresa looks down and away. "I...I just do," she says.

If he weren't already walking a tightrope, he'd call her out on her evasion. She's obviously not lying, but she's clearly concealing the truth. As it is, he lets it slide.

"Come on," Teresa says. "Let's get you into something dry."

He looks down at his shirt, suddenly remembering that he's still soaked to the skin. There's now a puddle of rainwater on the floor around his chair. He meets her eyes, and they share a smile.

He stands, extending a hand to her. She wraps her fingers around his, and he pulls her to his feet, leading her to his bedroom, where he locates a new set of clothes. He grabs her hand again and pulls her to the master bathroom, toeing off his shoes and tugging off his sodden socks. He straightens.

Teresa is more bold this time, immediately reaching for the buttons on his vest. He wants to make some kind of sarcastic comment but finds himself unable to speak.

She slips the vest from his body and lays it gently on the counter, returning her attention to him to begin work on the buttons of his shirt. Her fingers brush against his navel, and he sucks in a breath. Their eyes flash to each other's just as a flash of lightning illuminates the bedroom behind them.

She lays the shirt beside the vest.

"How did you score when you were using?" she asks, inspecting his left hand and making her way up his arm.

"Through a client," he says tersely.

Her thumb dances over the cubital vein in the crook of his elbow. "You have their phone number memorized?"

He closes his eyes. "Yes," he chokes out, ashamed. The number has always been a sort of security blanket for him. If things got bad enough, he'd know where to turn. He hates admitting this to Teresa.

But her hand slides down his arm to twine her fingers with his. "Patrick, I'm not getting on your case," she says gently. "I'm suggesting I contact Malibu PD to take this person down."

He squeezes his eyes tighter, but the tears still leak out. He feels Teresa reach up to wipe them away. "Okay," he says, nodding.

"I'll reach out to Detective Phillips," Teresa promises. She moves to his right arm. "Your computer and your cell phone," she says tentatively. "There are ways to limit which sites you can visit and who you call. I know a tech guy who can help with that, if that's what you want."

"Do it," he says.

"I'll make sure you can call the team and your sponsor," Teresa promises. "And one last question," she adds, unsure.

He opens his eyes at her tone.

"What is it?"

Her eyes are sad. "What should I look for? If you're using, how will I know?"

He feels her breath against his collarbone as he answers. "It feels like the laws of the universe don't apply to me. I don't sleep, I don't eat, I..." He shakes his head, humiliated. "I pick up women." He clears his throat. "And then I crash."

She nods. "Thank you for being so honest with me."

After a moment's hesitation, Teresa reaches for his belt, and he almost stills her hands. Instead, he employs every biofeedback trick he knows as her fingers quickly work, and he has to force himself from flinching when she unzips his fly. He steps out of his slacks and peels off his socks.

She takes her time exploring his body, moving more slowly than a week ago. It's agony and ecstasy at the same time, her fingertips against his skin, the scrutiny of her gaze. He thrills slightly when he realizes she's examining every inch of his skin rather than the most common injection sites; there's no reason, really, for her to examine his back or abdomen, but she does, leaving gooseflesh behind when she moves. He closes his eyes again.

Eventually, he feels her move in front of him.

"Look at me," Teresa says, and he does so.

She's visibly relaxed. He's floored when in the next moment she rises up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, one hand on his jaw to steady herself.

"I'm proud of you," she whispers.

He wraps his fingers around her wrists, cradling them to his chest, and leans his forehead down to rest upon hers.

* * *

Patrick reports for work a week early, refusing to spend several days moping around his apartment alone. Early his first day, he asks to speak to Cho and Rigsby alone, and he tells them about his past - and that both Teresa and Minelli have already been informed.

Cho's expression doesn't change, which is about as good as Patrick can hope for. "Okay," Cho says, nodding. "We'll work around it." And he exits Teresa's office, leaving Rigsby hovering by the door. Rigsby surprises Patrick by stepping toward him.

"Look, I know it's hard to tell with Cho, but you've earned his respect," Rigsby says. "What you did for Lisbon - that holds a lot of weight here. And Cho understands better than anyone how difficult it can be to overcome your past. He's just angry that you weren't honest about it from the beginning." He shrugs. "He'll get over it, especially if you help us solve the four open cases we've got."

Patrick looks at him curiously. "You're...okay with my being in recovery," he says, surprised. "You're not angry."

"Life is hard, man," says Rigsby. "I've made my own mistakes, and I'm owning them. Can't judge you for doing the same. Besides," he adds, "I'm sure you've done enough groveling to Lisbon. She can be pretty stubborn."

Patrick chuckles.

Rigsby claps a hand to Patrick's back. "Jane, you're part of the team. I'm sure you'll do more things in the future to piss us off, but we'll always have your back." He gestures with his head. "Come on. We have a scene to check out."

He holds the door open, and they enter the bullpen.

* * *

Patrick spends much of the day trying to keep down the meager breakfast he'd had that morning. The body they'd been called to check out turns out to be that of a teenage boy with bleach blond hair - or, more accurately, his hair had been blond before it had been stained with his blood. There are no recognizable features on his face.

When the team returns to the CBI, Cho takes one look at Patrick and suggests he lay down on the couch in Teresa's office. Still feeling faint, Patrick acquiesces, and Rigsby brings him a copy of the case file and a glass of orange juice. "It gets easier," he says quietly, then leaves the room.

Patrick downs the orange juice, surprised when he begins to feel immediately less nauseous. He skims over the file, incorporating the new information with what he'd observed at the scene. By lunch, he's fairly confident that the father should be brought in for additional questioning. He stands up, pleased when Teresa's office only spins a little.

He makes his way to Cho's desk.

"The father was having an affair," he says, and Cho looks up.

"How do you know?"

Patrick tells him.

They have the confession within an hour.

By Friday, they've closed two additional cases and stalled on progress for the remaining one. That afternoon, Patrick claims the desk at the far end of the bullpen and sits down to reread the file for the fifth time. He's memorized its contents, of course, but there has to be _something_ he's missed.

He looks up some time later to see Cho standing in front of him, arms crossed over his chest. Patrick blinks blearily and looks out the window, wondering how he'd missed the sunset.

"What time is it?" he asks.

"Eight," says Cho. "Go home, Jane."

Patrick shakes his head. "I have a few more pictures to make my way through."

Cho reaches over to shut the file. "It's been a hell of a first week for you. Go home."

"But the case - "

"It will wait until Monday."

Patrick doesn't move, and Cho sighs, reaching for the nearest chair. He pulls it toward him, sits, and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Avon Park Playboys," says Cho, and Patrick blinks again.

"Sorry?"

"The gang I was in," Cho explains.

Patrick nods. "Right." He taps his fingers against the file on the desk. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I know what it's like to have to prove you've left your past in the past," Cho says. "I nearly worked myself to death trying to do it my first year here. I don't want that to happen to you." He clasps his hands. "There's more to you than your addiction."

Patrick looks down. "I'm sorry I didn't tell the team sooner."

"You told us," says Cho. Patrick swears he sees his lip twitch up slightly. "Better late than never." He stands up and pushes the chair back to the desk he'd taken it from. "Let's call it a night."

"Okay," says Patrick, nodding, and he puts the file away.

* * *

Patrick attends a meeting and checks in with his sponsor on Saturday morning. That afternoon, he calls Teresa.

It's been a week since she'd been over to his apartment. They'd exchanged a few text messages throughout the work week, mostly regarding the outcome of the drug bust of Jane's former client, which had been successful. He misses her voice and her heart - his life is not the same when she is absent.

"Patrick," breathes Teresa when she answers. "I was just about to call you. I received a package this morning containing the most gorgeous green dress - would you happen to know anything about that?"

Patrick grins. "Does it fit?"

"Of course it does," she says, and he imagines that she's smiling while rolling her eyes. "No small feat, given that none of my clothes fit quite right after giving birth." She takes a breath. "What's the occasion?"

"Let me take you out tonight. No expectations."

He hears her sigh. "Patrick, I have Lizzie."

"I know. That's why Cho and Rigsby are going to stop by your place at seven."

"You're incorrigible."

"Stipulated." He laughs. "Come on, Teresa. It's been too long since I've seen your smile. I need to rectify this."

He thinks she's probably rolling her eyes again. "Patrick Jane, what am I going to do with you?"

He doesn't miss a beat. "Keep me?"

She laughs. "I'll see you a little after seven."

* * *

Patrick straightens his jacket unnecessarily. It feels a bit strange; the tweed jacket is longer and heavier than his normal suit jackets, and paired with jeans and a vest, it's more casual than he normally appears. He runs a hand through his hair in case a strand had been displaced and breathes deeply as he waits for Teresa to arrive.

He hears three quick knocks and rushes to the door, opening it to reveal a smiling Teresa.

Her eyes go wide then deliberately rove down his body. "Wow," she continues, meeting his gaze. "You look...you look good." She blinks, seemingly dazed, and Patrick beams at her.

"You look incredible," he says.

"You have good taste, it seems," says Teresa.

The dress fits perfectly, as he'd known it would. The side-tie frock is solid jade, the same shade as her eyes, with three-quarter length sleeves. She's paired it with black tights, a leather jacket, and boots.

It's a killer combination.

"Are these shoes okay?" Teresa asks self consciously.

It takes him several seconds to answer - he's gotten sidetracked by the way the fabric of the dress clings to her hips.

"Patrick?" Teresa prompts.

"Uh, yes," he says, blinking. "Perfect. You're perfect." _Oops._ He shakes his head. " _They're_ perfect."

Teresa gives him a sly smile. "Where exactly are we going?" she asks.

He grins. "You'll see."

* * *

He opens the passenger side door of the Citroen, and Teresa brushes her shoulder against his as she sits down. Patrick moves to his side, slamming the door after he climbs in, and he turns to her before he starts the engine.

"Do you trust me?"

Teresa rolls her eyes.

"I'll take that as a yes," Patrick says, and he pulls a silk scarf from the inside pocket of his jacket. "Humor me?"

She looks at him in feigned alarm when she sees him fold the scarf. "You're blindfolding me? Is this a kidnapping? Or something kinkier? I thought you said there were no expectations."

"Can hardly call it a kidnapping seeing as you agreed to join me," he points out, ignoring the rest of her question. "Come now, Teresa. I want to surprise you."

He gives her what she's come to call his charm smile. It works, and she allows him to tie the blindfold over her eyes.

"Should I be nervous?" Teresa asks, and Patrick starts the ignition and pulls away from the curb. He reaches for her hand and laughs. "Like _that_ is supposed to reassure me," says Teresa.

He drives them out of the city, talking her ear off and taking a few wrong turns so she won't be able to track where they're headed. Eventually, they cross the city limits and end up on a lonely road winding toward the scarlet sunset, and he turns into a gravel parking lot.

"We're here?" asks Teresa, noticing the change in their speed.

"We're here," he confirms.

He parks the car and jogs around to open her door, leaning down to grab her hand and help her out. After shutting the door, he places one hand at the small of her back to guide her forward. "Alright," he says, coming to a stop. He lifts the blindfold.

Before them is a carnival, a maze of brilliant lights, cheery music, and divine smells. The ferris wheel is the centerpiece of the show, looming above them, its lights the brightest of all. Small tents radiate outward from the center like spokes, selling cotton candy of every color imaginable and promises of laughter. Toward the outside, rides for smaller children have been set up, including a chair swing and a carousel.

They are standing underneath the arch displaying the name of the carnival, and Teresa looks up with glossy eyes.

" _The Greatest Show_ ," she breathes. Then she looks at him. "This was your carnival? These are your people?"

He nods.

Her eyes shine brighter than the lights before them. She takes his hand, and they race forward.


	10. Chapter 10

Teresa's eyes are caught immediately by the cart selling funnel cakes, so Patrick pulls her in that direction. She throws her head back and laughs as he leads her through the throng of squealing children and frazzled parents. Before she can argue with him, he orders two funnel cakes and pays for both. He only eats half of his, offering the rest to Teresa when she scarfs hers down quickly.

She takes it without hesitation.

"Alright, heartthrob," she says between bites. "You're the expert here. What do you recommend we do?"

"Well, first things first," Patrick responds. "There's someone special I'd like you to meet."

She swallows her last chunk of funnel cake. "Is your father still working here?"

Patrick shakes his head. "God, no," he says. "The circuit lost track of him years ago." He gestures with a hand to lead them to a large red and yellow circus-style tent. "No, this is far better."

Her curiosity is piqued, and she follows him eagerly to the opening of the tent. He sweeps the fabric aside, and she says, "Are we allowed to be here?"

"I know a guy," says Patrick, grinning, guiding her inside before him.

He allows the tent to fall closed behind him and moves to stand next to Teresa, who's staring, shell-shocked, toward the center of the tent. A single spotlight shines, illuminating an elephant, who stares curiously back at them.

"Well, hello," says Teresa in the same voice she uses when talking to Lizzie.

"Meet Daisy," Patrick whispers. A middle-aged man with an imposing presence steps out behind Daisy, and Patrick grins. "And Pete."

"Patrick Jane," says Pete, grinning. "You son of a bitch."

Patrick walks up to Pete and embraces him. "You dog."

They separate, and Pete glances over at Teresa. "She a cop?"

Teresa's smile falters. "It's that obvious?"

"It's not a bad thing," says Patrick.

"Who's the lovely lady, Jane? You must be crazy about her if you're trying to impress her with Daisy."

Patrick smiles and looks over at Teresa. He reaches out his hand to gesture to her. "This is my good friend Teresa," he says. "And, yeah, I'm pretty crazy about her."

Pete and Teresa shake hands. "Good to meet you, my dear."

"And you," says Teresa. She looks eagerly up at Daisy. "Can I…?" she asks, unsure.

"Oh, yeah, of course," says Pete. He searches in his pockets and withdraws an apple, which he tosses to her. "Give her this."

Teresa catches it with one hand and steps to Daisy. "Hey," she says softly, raising the apple. Daisy takes it in her trunk and swallows it whole, and Teresa beams.

"Do you want to see a trick?" asks Pete, and though Teresa nods eagerly, Patrick steps forward.

"Teresa just gave birth. Let Daisy show the trick on me, not Teresa."

Pete gestures for Teresa to stand back, and Patrick switches places with her. Pete gives a hand signal to Daisy, and suddenly Patrick is hoisted into the air as Daisy's trunk wraps around his stomach. Teresa shrieks in surprise.

Pete gives a different signal, and Daisy flips Patrick upside down. Patrick watches as Teresa tries to stifle her laughter. "Do you think we can keep him there?" she asks Pete, who snickers.

As the blood rushes to his head, Patrick's vision swims, but not before he sees Teresa step toward him. "This was a pretty slick move," she says, placing a hand on his cheek. "Taking me here to impress me."

"Is it working?"

She snorts. "Let's put him down before he bursts a blood vessel," she says, looking over at Pete and stepping back. Pete signals again, and Daisy puts Patrick down. He sways, and his vision tunnels as equilibrium reestablishes itself. Teresa steadies him with a hand on his elbow.

"You wasted a prime opportunity to ask embarrassing stories about my childhood," he mutters to her. "You had me at your mercy hoisted in the air."

"I'm sure there will be plenty of opportunity for that later." She reaches out to Daisy, who extends her trunk. Teresa approaches tentatively, smiling widely, and Patrick turns to Pete, the conversation flowing easily. Teresa joins in on occasion, and Patrick's heart swells.

Sometime later, Patrick checks his watch. "You got a show coming up in a few minutes, right, Pete? We'll get out of your hair."

Pete steps forward to give Patrick another hug. "It's good to see you, Jane. Don't be a stranger, okay?"

Patrick claps him on the back, suddenly too emotional to respond.

Pete steps back and turns to Teresa. "A pleasure," he says, shaking her hand again.

"I'll definitely keep in touch. Having some dirt on Patrick will be useful," she says, deadpan, and Pete guffaws as they walk away.

They make it a couple feet out of the tent before Teresa grabs his arm. "You learned about deception from your carnie friends, right?"

He nods. "I did."

"So the people you learned from must have been pretty good."

"They were," he says, and he follows her line of vision to another tent with large letters displaying the word _PSYCHIC_ above the canvas. This tent, however - unlike the red and yellows of the circus tent - is made of shimmering material that flutters in the unseasonably cool breeze. Patrick looks over at Teresa. "You want to get a reading done?" he asks, dubious. It doesn't sound like her at all.

"No," she says, shaking her head. Her expression is stoic enough to rival Cho's best pokerface. "I want _you_ to get one."

It's been over a decade since he'd had any connection with the carnival. Back then, he'd been the only psychic in the group. He's not sure who this new person is - or even if they have any talent.

But Teresa will be amused if they have talent or lack it, he reasons, so he says, "First time for everything" and allows himself to be led into the tent.

It's dimly lit, a deliberate change from the bright lights of the carnival - most likely to give the "psychic" a chance to look over their customers before their eyes adjust, Patrick knows. String lights hang like a halo around a small, antique table, at which sits a woman with curly, auburn hair.

"Welcome," she says. "Please." She gestures to the seats in front of her. She turns immediately to Patrick. "So, you'll be getting your fortune read. Palm or tarot?"

Teresa glances at him out of the corner of her eye, and he pulls out a chair for her. She sits, and so does he. "Tarot," he says, folding his hands in front of him on the table.

The woman narrows her eyes at him, as though he presents a challenge she's eager to undertake. Then she reaches for her deck of cards.

"This world is familiar to you, is it not?" she asks.

Patrick nods. "I grew up here," he admits.

"I thought so," the woman says, shuffling the deck. "Shall we begin?"

She doesn't wait for him to answer and begins laying out cards, one after the other, from the top of her deck. "You may ask me questions at any time," she says, and once she's laid out five cards, she sets the deck aside again and flips over the first card.

" _The_ _Wheel of Fortune_ ," continues the woman. "You are about to undertake a period of great change in your life. Whether that change is for better or for worse is remains to be seen."

"What kind of change?" asks Teresa, and Patrick notes the curiosity in her tone, her cautious skepticism.

"It could be related to social standing, finances, your career, a friendship. Or all of the above." She flips the next card. "Ah," she says. " _The Magician_. This indicates that you must approach a future event with everything you have; you must not hold back. You have talent that you must use unreservedly."

She turns over the next card with a flourish. "Curious. _The Hanged Man_. Now, most people would fear the worst with such a card, but in reality, it represents self-sacrifice. You will find something - or someone - worthy of your life." The woman glances at Teresa. "Sooner rather than later, I expect."

She nods as she reveals the next card. "Yes, this makes sense," she says. " _The Lovers_. This card indicates that some choice regarding a temptation of the heart will soon come to pass. With its proximity to _The Hanged Man_ , I'd treat this choice with the utmost care."

Patrick refrains from rolling his eyes only barely.

"What do you mean?" asks Teresa.

Patrick can't help himself. "She's implying I'll sacrifice my heart when I make this choice."

The woman nods. "It is an unusual combination of cards. One I've seen only rarely, in fact." She flips over the last card. " _Death_ ," she breathes, and Patrick feels Teresa tense beside him. "Not necessarily representing physical death. This could be the death of a friendship or relationship."

"Can it be avoided?" asks Teresa.

"Your future is already written in the stars. All that's left is to live it."

Patrick stands and throws a few bills on the table. "Thank you for your time," he says curtly, and Teresa pushes her chair back to follow him out.

When they're back under the neon lights of the carnival, Teresa wraps an arm around his. "She was good," she says.

Patrick nods. "Yes, she was," he admits grudgingly. "Though all of what she said really could apply to most of the people here."

"She got under your skin."

"Yes."

Teresa touches her hand to his cheek to force him to look at her. "You know she was saying that stuff because she thinks you're hot, right?"

He misses a step. "What?"

"She likes you," says Teresa. "She was trying to rattle you. You know, like the carnival equivalent of pulling someone's pigtails."

Patrick scoffs. "Please."

"Come on, Patrick, you're the mentalist here. Her expression was pretty obvious. She was checking you out as you stood up to leave."

"You thoroughly enjoyed having her read me, didn't you?" he says, playfully exasperated.

Teresa grins. "Every second of it."

"You wanted me to get a reading simply to mess with me."

"Obviously."

His smile is so wide his eyes start to squint. He throws his arms around her and pulls her close, whispering in her ear, "You drive me crazy, woman."

Her laugh is angelic.

* * *

Later, they find themselves in front of a two-story temporary building painted to match a brilliant sunset, its yellows, oranges, pinks, and reds contrasting with the ink of the sky.

"What is this?" asks Teresa as they stop short.

"A fun house," says Patrick. "Want to check it out?"

"What kind of a question is that?" Teresa laughs, and he can't help but smile at her enthusiasm.

He purchases tickets, and they walk inside. The lights are just bright enough to navigate but leave much to be imagined, with shadows exaggerated at every corner.

"This isn't the same one from your childhood, is it?" asks Teresa over her shoulder as they enter a hall of mirrors.

"No," he says. "I suspect that one didn't last much longer than I did at the carnival." He trips, and Teresa turns around to check on him.

"You okay?"

"My eyesight is terrible," he admits. "Especially in the dark." He glances around at the distorting mirrors.

Teresa grabs his hand. "Follow my lead," she says, guiding him.

They begin to make their way through the mirrors slowly, and Teresa turns her head slightly to address him again.

"If you had to do it all over again, would you still choose to leave?" she asks.

"Without a doubt," Patrick responds. "Leaving the carnival led me to make some mistakes, but it also led me to the CBI. And to you."

She stops suddenly, and he stumbles into her, his hands landing on her hips, his nose buried in her hair.

"What is this to you?" she asks suddenly. "What am I to you?"

His eyes flit down to the graceful curve of her neck. "Everything," he says breathlessly. "Don't ask me what I mean by that," he adds. "Not yet, anyway."

She leans back into him slightly before pulling away, reaching behind her to grab his fingers. She nods.

They begin to move again, exiting the hall of mirrors and reaching a rotating tunnel. He swears. "I'm going to have to crawl through this," he says, and Teresa laughs. He watches as, fearless, Teresa jumps into the tunnel and takes off. She doesn't miss a step, and seconds later she is peering over at him from the other side.

He makes it approximately two feet before falling straight on his face. The tunnel continues to spin, making it nearly impossible to get balanced again, but suddenly a strong pair of steady hands is pulling him up and forward. Then he's on steady ground.

"Always coming to my rescue," he says.

"Count on it."

They climb two flights of stairs and find themselves on a loft overlooking the hall of mirrors below. In front of them is a massive slide leading the way back to ground level and ending in a ballpit. Patrick reaches over to grab a burlap mat from a pile by the railings. He sets it down at the top of the slide and sits, gesturing for Teresa to join him. She does, sitting between his legs, her back to his chest, and he wraps his arms around her.

He pushes forward.

She shrieks as they fly downward, and he tightens his grip on her torso.

In a second it's over. They tumble into the ballpit, sinking into the plastic.

She tosses a ball at him, and it bounces harmlessly off his shoulder. "You're setting some high standards for yourself," she says.

"That's the goal," says Patrick, wading toward her. "Come here, woman." And he pulls her flush against him.

"Do you seduce women at the carnival often?" Teresa asks.

"You're the first woman I've ever wanted to seduce," he says. "Why?"

She's breathing heavily. "You're really good at it," she says, shooting him a smile and then breaking away and climbing out of the pit.

He smirks and scrambles after her.

* * *

As the night goes on, the outside temperature drops several degrees. Two children sprint in front of them, their parents a second behind. Patrick looks over at Teresa. "You hungry?"

She nods.

"Excellent. There are a couple of things you have to try." He offers her his arm, and she takes it.

Rather than ordering separate meals, he leads her to several different food carts, and ten minutes later their arms are laden with pizza on a stick, churros and chocolate sauce, caramel corn, a giant pretzel, and two lemonades. They find an unoccupied picnic table and sit down next to each other, touching from shoulder to hip to thigh.

"So you grew up on this food?"

He laughs. "No, no, no," he says, tearing the pretzel into several pieces and dunking one into cheddar cheese dip. "This stuff was only for special occasions. Carnie folk don't really give handouts, even to other carnie members, so we made our own food. My dad wasn't exactly a good cook, so I did the best I could." He makes a face. "My best wasn't very good at the time."

She nudges him with her elbow and takes a sip of her lemonade. "Come on," she says. "You're a great cook."

"Yes, _now_ ," he says, laughing. "I had lots of practice."

Teresa grabs the pizza on a stick and bites into it. "Did you have a lot of friends here when you were young?"

He shrugs. "There weren't many kids my age," he says. "Pete took me under his wing, and I heard he got married to his longtime sweetheart, Sam, recently. I'll introduce you to her next time. But to be honest, I burned a lot of bridges when I left here. With carnies, you're either with them or you're a mark. When I left, I became a mark. I recognized a lot of people here tonight, but it's probably easier that they didn't recognize me."

She offers him the pizza. Instead of grabbing the stick, he leans over a takes a bite as she holds it. Teresa smiles and then returns to nibbling on the pizza.

She swallows. "Tell me about your happiest memory here," she says.

He stares off into space. "I must have been about twelve or so," he says slowly, returning to his memory palace. "It was a fourth of July picnic, and there was happy music." He smiles. "A little girl was being lifted into the air by her father." Patrick looks over at Teresa. "I had some good memories here. But I've had a lot more since I met you."

She blushes and looks down, reaching for a churro and dipping it into the chocolate sauce. She takes a bite then dips it again and offers it to him, and he leans over once more to bite into the churro.

"Did you keep anything from your childhood?" Teresa asks. "Apart from the book and photograph, that is."

"We didn't have much," Patrick admits, finishing another churro. "We lived in an Airstream, so there wasn't a lot of room for personal possessions. I got out of there with the clothes on my back."

"What happened to the aunt you mentioned? The one who gave you the book?"

"I asked Pete when I called him to set up showing you Daisy," Patrick says. "She, uh...she died several years ago." He looks at her out of the corner of his eye. "Cancer."

"I'm sorry," says Teresa, taking his hand in hers.

He shrugs. "It's okay. She showed me some kindness here, but I didn't know her well. It's hard to truly know the people here."

"Why's that?"

"They think that the more people know about you, the easier it is to become a mark."

She looks at him strangely. "You really believe that?"

"No," he murmurs. "I don't." He starts gathering the trash on the table and stands. "I have one thing left to show you," he says, tossing their empty cups and used napkins in the nearest trash bin. He pulls her to her feet, his hand moving to rest on the small of her back.

They cross the picnic table area, and he leads Teresa toward the line for the ferris wheel. As they wait, he feels her shiver, and he immediately shrugs out of his jacket and places it on her shoulders.

"Patrick," she says, immediately protesting. "You don't need to - "

"Hush, woman," he responds.

Three minutes later, he's paid for tickets and they climb into their pod. They sit, and the pod lurches forward. As the pod climbs, Teresa looks over at him.

"Thank you," she says. "For showing me your home. Your childhood."

"My pleasure," he murmurs.

The stars can't compete with the gleam in her eyes as she looks down at the carnival below. He thinks of his past, of hers - and of the moment they almost crossed paths.

"Do you think we were always supposed to meet?" he asks her.

She nods. "Yeah," she says, turning to look at him. "I do."

He tucks a stray ebony curl back into place behind her ear. "Happy birthday, Teresa," he whispers.

She gapes at him. "How did you - "

He grins conspiratorially. She rolls her eyes, leaning back against him, and he lifts his arm to lay it across her shoulders. She rests her head in the crook of his neck.

Her lips find his collarbone, and he trembles at the touch.


	11. Chapter 11

Over the next few weeks, Patrick steals time with Teresa. They fall into a routine of meeting at their spot in the park on Saturday afternoons, where they continue his self defense lessons. Sometimes, though, they just lie together in the grass under the old trees and she shows him pictures of Lizzie. He tapes them to his refrigerator, a bittersweet reminder of all that he's missing.

Patrick lifts Teresa's wallet on more than one occasion to sneak her some extra cash to pay for these babysitting hours. It seems only fair, he thinks, considering they wouldn't be necessary if not for him anyway. He'd taken the liberty of inquiring about the CBI's maternity leave policy - as he'd expected, it is atrocious. He knows Teresa isn't planning on returning to work until three months have passed since Lizzie was born. And by law, Teresa is able to take twelve weeks off, though the CBI is not obligated to pay her for her leave unless she uses sick days or vacation days. He does the math, realizing she can't have been employed by the CBI long enough to have accumulated enough days to cover twelve weeks. And even then, Teresa will be at a disadvantage when she returns to work in the case she needs to take time off for other health-related issues.

He sets up a college fund for Lizzie that same day, deciding to only share this information with his sponsor, Michael, for the time being.

"How old is she?" asks Michael one day as they are standing in line to order drinks - coffee for Michael, tea for Patrick - after a weekend meeting. Michael is a retired Navy SEAL who'd served two tours abroad. He stands about half a foot taller than Patrick, though his muscle mass puts him at likely a hundred pounds heavier. Besides Teresa, he's the only person Patrick feels intimidated by.

Patrick reaches for his wallet and produces a slightly wrinkled picture of Lizzie, fast asleep and clutching the stuffed dinosaur she'd received as a gift from Cho and Rigsby.

"Eight weeks," says Patrick, and he can't help but smile at the picture. "She's grown so much since I saw her last."

They pay for their drinks and stand off to the side as they barista prepares them. Michael nods. "She's good for you," he says. "As is her mother. Sometimes, it's hard to find the strength to keep fighting for ourselves, but we can always find that strength for the people we care about."

Patrick hums in agreement, and they grab their drinks and sit down.

"How are things with you?" asks Patrick.

Michael shrugs. "There are good days and bad days. For whatever reason, the PTSD has been worse this week."

Patrick leans back in his chair, tapping a finger against the table.

Michael hadn't survived war by being unobservant. "What are you thinking?" he asks.

Patrick takes a breath. "Have you tried hypnotherapy?" he says.

His sponsor laughs deeply. "I've heard it's a load of shit," says Michael.

Patrick has to laugh at this, too. "It can be," he acknowledges. "Unless you have the right hypnotist."

"You recommending someone?"

Patrick gestures to himself.

Michael narrows his eyes. "You hypnotize people into believing you were psychic?"

"Not quite," says Patrick. "Some of my clients saw me for addiction-related problems. I helped a few quit smoking. Others I saw because of phobias or other psychological issues." He leans forward again. "It might be worth a shot."

"Why haven't you tried it?"

"When I was first learning the trade, I trained myself to be less susceptible to hypnosis. At the time, it was a way to protect myself, to make sure no one could get inside my head. It was a point of pride for me, to be un-hypnotizable, so to speak." He smiles wryly. "Obviously, my being more or less immune to hypnosis isn't ideal now."

Michael nods and takes a deep drink from his coffee. "Let me think about it," he says finally.

* * *

As it turns out, Patrick's sponsor doesn't need long to consider his offer: he hears from Michael the next day asking if he'd still be willing to try it. They make plans to meet up after the next meeting.

They borrow one of the annex rooms in the community center where group meetings are held and get to work. Despite Michael's initial hesitation, he proves fairly easy to take under, and Patrick asks him some questions, leading him in what he hopes is the right direction. He's helped clients with addiction before, of course, but never with PTSD. He knows enough, however, to understand the general approach he needs to use.

Once he's fairly confident they've made at least some progress, he wakes Michael up. His sponsor blinks, dazed, and says, "Did it work?"

Patrick scrubs a hand over his mouth and chin. "I guess we'll see," he responds. "Let me know how you feel this week. If it seems to make things better, we can keep working on it."

* * *

Things do, in fact, seem to improve for Michael, so much so that within the next month everyone at the meetings suddenly knows who Patrick is, and his skill as a hypnotist becomes common knowledge. He'd almost forgotten what it felt like to have heads turn in his direction when he walked into a room, what it felt like to have curious eyes following his movements. He'd thought he could leave that behind with his fake psychic business in Malibu - he'd never much liked being a celebrity.

Patrick brings himself back to the present. The members of the current meeting take their seats, and Patrick unintentionally makes eye contact with a woman who he knows is also struggling with cocaine addiction.

An idea occurs to him.

* * *

Later that week, Patrick arrives early at the park. He throws a blanket on the ground and lies down under their tree, closing his eyes and lacing his fingers together over his chest. Birds sing overhead. He listens to their lullaby, feeling it lull him toward unconsciousness.

Suddenly he catches a waft of cinnamon, and he's wide awake, his eyes wide open. Teresa approaches and sits next to him, laying down and propping herself up on an elbow. She peers down at him.

"Cho told me you were key to cracking the Glenshaw murder," she says, playful and proud. "Nicely done."

He can't help but smile bashfully. "The killer was practically begging to be caught."

Teresa laughs. "Not really," she says. "That case has been open for months." She leans over slightly, and her hair tickles his neck. "Just take the compliment, Patrick."

He holds her gaze, all seriousness. "Okay," he says. "Thank you."

She nudges him. "You're welcome." With a satisfied sigh, she rests her head next to his, and her hand finds his own. Their fingers intertwine. He grins, ecstatic, tilting his head so he can see her face.

She's smiling, too.

"How was your week?" he asks.

"I'm ready to get back to work," Teresa says without hesitation. "I'm going stir crazy. I love Lizzie more than anything in this world, but I miss my job. And I miss seeing you all the time."

"Good thing you go back on Monday." He smiles.

"Thank goodness," Teresa responds. She looks over at him. "Listen," she says. "There's something I've been meaning to ask you." She looks suddenly shy, and Patrick props his head up on his hand. "Every year the CBI has a big formal fundraiser. All the bigwigs who donate are invited, and the agents go to schmooze and try to encourage them to donate more."

Teresa looks down at their hands. Her thumb brushes back and forth against his palm.

"Would you like to go with me?"

He forgets to breathe for several seconds.

"Yes," he says finally and a little too loudly. "Yes, I would very much like to go with you." He squeezes her hand in delight at her answering grin. "It's formal, you said?"

"Black tie attire," she confirms.

"Will there be dancing?" he asks eagerly.

"Yes."

"Will you dance with me?"

"Will you behave yourself?"

"For you, my dear, I'll do anything."

She pretends to consider this. "All right, then."

They banter and flirt for another couple hours, shifting closer to each other in the process, and eventually her head is on his chest. Reluctantly, he looks at his watch and shifts her in his arms. "We should get going if we want to have time to stop by my place before you go back home," he whispers.

Teresa sighs, placing her arm over his torso and gripping him tightly. "I miss you," she murmurs.

He kisses her temple and pulls her to her feet. "Let's go."

He follows her in his car back to the parking lot of his building, and they walk inside together in silence. Patrick takes off his shoes and socks, and Teresa leaves hers on, bringing her eyes a little closer to the height of his own. They move to the bathroom, and Patrick's phone rings. He moves to silence it, but Teresa shakes her head. "It's okay," she says.

Patrick checks the caller ID. "Hi Michael," he says after flipping open the phone. "Still meeting tomorrow?"

"Yes," says Michael. "Hey, Patrick, I know you're swamped with work and volunteer work, but I have an Navy friend who's interested in trying hypnosis. He saw how much good it's done for me. Could I trouble you - "

"No trouble at all," says Patrick. "I'm staying after the meeting tomorrow to help someone else anyway, so just bring your friend along."

"Thanks, Patrick. I really can't thank you enough."

"Least I can do, Michael. Take care."

"Say hello to Teresa for me."

Patrick flushes. Teresa notices. "Will do." And he ends the call.

Teresa raises an eyebrow.

"That was Michael," says Patrick, placing the phone down on the bathroom counter. "He says hi."

Teresa grins. "How much have you told him about me?" she asks, lifting her hands to the crook of his neck and brushing the skin there. She slides her hands underneath his suit jacket and pushes it from his shoulders.

She's taking her time on the buttons of his vest when he answers. "I may have told him a bit about you." Her hands brush his pectorals, and even through his shirt, the contact makes him feel feverish and frenzied. "I may have told him _a lot_ about you."

She sets the vest to the side. "I've always liked these vests," she says. When his breath catches, she begins divesting him of his shirt. His belt and slacks follow quickly. As she removes them, her fingers brush his center, whether on purpose or not, he's not sure. "What did he want?" Teresa asks a few seconds later.

"I'm doing some volunteering in my spare time," says Patrick, hoping concentrating on the words will control body parts that threaten to betray him.

With one hand on his left hip and the other at the crook of his right elbow, she stills. "What kind of volunteering?" she asks.

He looks into her eyes. "Remember when you met Agostino? How I mentioned I used hypnosis to get him to quit smoking?"

She nods.

"It works with other addictions, too. I'm helping out a few people at my meetings. It's not foolproof, of course, and some people can't be taken under at all, but…it's a start."

Before he can realize what's happening, Teresa has folded him into her arms. He's intensely aware of every pinprick of contact between them.

Then, without a word, she steps back, beginning her examination of every surface of sinew.

He's been stripped bare before her a dozen times now but never quite like this. Her lips follow her fingertips across his skin, and she devotes extra attention to the crooks of his elbows, kissing the scars there. He nearly loses it when she turns him around to examine his back, trailing open-mouthed kisses across every inch.

" _Teresa_ ," he says in a strangled voice.

He thinks he feels her smile against his skin.

Then she guides him to sit on the counter. She gives the same attention to his thighs, his calves, his knees. He leans his head back against the cool mirror. "Are you rewarding me for good behavior or something?" he asks.

Another smile, this one at his hip as she stands back up. "Rewarding both of us," she corrects, and he closes his eyes in agony.

A second later he can feel her breath on his lips. He doesn't dare to look at her.

He's not entirely sure if her lips actually touch his. He thinks he feels something - a feather-light, phantom something - but he can't be certain. A second later, he hears her sharp intake of breath, feels the air shift -

Then he hears the front door fall shut behind her.

Patrick doesn't move for several minutes. His mind is racing, whirling, overanalyzing - and nothing quite makes sense.

 _What did I do wrong?_

But he can't come up with an answer.

He searches his memory palace. Is it possible he hit on some kind of trigger? He tries to remember every conversation they've ever had.

Then he understands.

 _I was engaged, once, back home in Chicago._

 _What happened?_

 _Everything. So I ran away._

 _You weren't ready._

He immediately draws the parallel to his conservation with Teresa in the fun house hall of mirrors.

 _What is this to you? What am I to you?_

 _Everything._

Patrick curses loudly. He'd moved too fast. Too much, too soon. It's been less than a year since her partner had died - what the hell was he thinking?

He slides off the counter, shivering, and he turns on the faucet to splash water on his face. Is it best to reach out to her? Or to give her distance? He wishes he knew.

He decides on a compromise.

Grabbing his phone, he types out two words: _I'm sorry_. He sends the text. And then he waits. He's putting the ball in her court. If she needs space, if she needs distance, she can take it. He won't begrudge her that.

He gathers his discarded clothes and puts them back on.

Then he wraps himself in a blanket and lays prone on the couch, trying unsuccessfully to fight off the cold.

* * *

Patrick falls into an uneasy sleep, only waking to the sound of his phone buzzing against his chest. It's Teresa's ringtone.

He answers the call and sits up, dazed. Night has already fallen, and he's unsure exactly how much time he's been asleep.

"I'm so sorry - " he begins.

He cuts himself off when he hears her say the same words. Then they are both silent, listening to each other breathe deeply.

"You don't need to apologize," says Patrick.

"Yes, I do," Teresa protests. "How I acted wasn't fair."

"It's okay," he says. "I understand."

She doesn't respond right away. "Are you home?"

He feels his brows knit together. "Yes," he says.

"I'll be right up."

And she disconnects the call.

Disconcerted, Patrick stands and tosses the blanket over the back of the couch haphazardly. He paces for a minute before finally hearing a soft knock at the door, and he rushes forward to answer.

His jaw drops.

Teresa stands before him in pajamas and a leather jacket. She's carrying Lizzie in her detachable car seat. The infant is sound asleep.

"Hi," Patrick breathes.

He's been counting the days since he saw Lizzie last, knows it's been just under three months since he held her. If it's possible, she's grown infinitely more adorable in that time - which is saying something, he thinks, considering Lizzie was already precious the moment she was born.

Patrick's knees buckle.

He steps aside and ushers them in. Teresa sets the carrier down as he shuts the door, and she reaches for Lizzie gingerly, careful not to wake her. "You want to hold her?" she asks.

He can only nod, and Teresa sets Lizzie in his waiting arms.

She snuggles into his warmth, and he sits on the couch, careful not to jostle her. Teresa sits beside him.

"I reached out to Michael today," she whispers. "I trust you, of course, but given your past…"

He'd hoped she would want to discuss what had happened earlier today, but her body language makes it clear she doesn't. Patrick internally sighs. Then he reminds himself that she is here, next to him - and better yet, she has brought Lizzie with her - and that is something.

"You'd be remiss if you didn't look into it. I understand," he says.

"Right," she says. "He said you've been spending nearly all your free time at the community center, offering to help anyone who wants to try hypnosis. He even gave me the number of the meeting coordinator, Caroline, who was astounded by your work. People are calling her from other areas of Sacramento asking for your services." She looks at him in awe. "Patrick, I'm so proud. So incredibly proud. And honored - honored that I get to call you my friend and my partner." She folds her hands in her lap. "I've said this before, but I want you to hear it again: you're a good man, Patrick Jane."

Patrick brushes a finger through Lizzie's hair, which is far darker and longer than he'd last seen it. He leans down to kiss the baby's temple, breathing in her sweet smell.

"I want you in Lizzie's life. I want her to have a positive male role model to look up to."

He watches Lizzie yawn, and his heart almost bursts. He checks his watch; it's after eleven.

"Stay here tonight," he whispers. "Take the guest bedroom. It's late, and you need to sleep."

She kisses his check. "Okay," she murmurs.

* * *

He has a minor heart attack when the doorknob to his room twists at three in the morning; he calms considerably when he realizes it's only Teresa opening the door.

"Teresa?" he whispers through the dark.

She approaches him, the baby monitor in one hand, and he scoots over, pulling back the comforter. She sets the monitor down on the bedside table and slides in beside him.

"I want…" she begins, and he can see how distressed she is by the sliver of moonlight sneaking in through a slit in the blinds. She sighs. "So badly. But I...I can't. I...I don't know how." Tortured lines appear on her forehead, and he lifts a hand to smooth them away. " _I don't know how._ "

"I know," he murmurs. "It's okay - I know."

He kisses chilled skin then wraps her in his warmth, pulling her flesh against his.


	12. Chapter 12

Patrick is awoken the next morning by the sound of babbling from the baby monitor. Teresa's eyes flash open, her mother bear instincts on high alert, but he reaches over to pull the comforter back up around her shoulders. "I got it," he whispers, and he rolls out of bed.

He pads into the guest bedroom, where Lizzie lays in her bassinet. She's stretching her legs and kicking happily when he approaches, and when he looks down at her, something in the infant's expression changes.

"Do you remember me?" he asks tentatively, lifting her and cradling her against his chest.

Lizzie's tiny fingers immediately reach up to him, and he holds her wide-eyed gaze. He raises her slightly so he can kiss her cheek; as he does so, Lizzie's hand brushes his forehead then grabs a small fistful of his hair.

She giggles.

"You can laugh now?" he says in awe, and Lizzie just smiles at him, a knowing intelligence in her gaze. She tugs at one of his curls again and resumes babbling, as though she's trying to catch him up on everything he's missed over the past several weeks.

Patrick returns her grin and coos back at her. He carries her to the living room, where he finds fresh diapers. He's never actually changed Lizzie's diaper before, but he's watched Teresa as she'd done so more times than he can remember. The movements come naturally despite the weeks that have passed, and he cradles Lizzie once more, returning to the master bedroom.

Teresa lifts her head. "Hey," she says.

Lizzie grabs more of Patrick's hair and giggles again. Patrick just beams.

"She likes your curls," notes Teresa.

"Like mother, like daughter," says Patrick, sliding into bed again. Teresa folds the comforter over his legs, letting her arm fall across his waist as her head returns to the pillow. Patrick leans against the headboard. "Do you...do you think she knows me?" he whispers.

He feels a light pressure as Teresa's arm tightens around his torso.

"Infants are better at recognizing faces than adults are," she says softly, burrowing in closer to him. "So to answer your question - "

Patrick tears his gaze from Lizzie to glance down at her mother. With her eyes closed and a tender smile on her lips, she looks at home.

"Without a doubt," finishes Teresa.

* * *

Patrick watches from the bullpen as Teresa steps out of the elevator and is immediately greeted enthusiastically by several agents waiting for the lift. Teresa smiles bashfully, returning their greetings. She heads next toward her team, and Patrick follows Rigsby and Cho in flocking toward her.

Rigsby clearly surprises her by enveloping her in a bear hug; Teresa recovers quickly and leans into his embrace. She hugs Cho more quickly but no less earnestly. Patrick is last, and it takes tremendous effort to pull back from her after a few seconds.

"I missed you guys," says Teresa, giving them each a smile.

"Glad you're back, Boss," says Cho.

Rigsby says, "Want us to brief you on the open cases?"

Teresa looks over at Patrick. "Any developments since this past weekend? Patrick has been keeping me informed of progress."

Cho shakes his head. "Nothing yet."

"But if you want to look at the case files, they're on your desk," supplies Rigsby.

"Thanks, guys," she says. "You still pouring over evidence for the Backman case?"

"We've hit a dead end, so to speak," admits Patrick. "We're hoping you'll see something we missed."

Teresa nods. "I'll look over that file first."

Cho and Rigsby head back to their desks, and Teresa catches Patrick's eye. She smiles at him, so quickly he would have missed it if he'd blinked, and turns on her heel to head to her office.

Patrick follows.

As she settles in behind her desk, he reaches into his jacket pocket and places an origami frog on her desk. She raises an eyebrow, the phone rings, and she fails to smother a smile as she answers.

"Lisbon," she says. Indistinct words float back in response. "Yes, text me the address." She hangs up the phone. "We're up."

The frog leaps, and so does Teresa. "Damn it, Jane," she curses, and he grins at her use of his last name.

He's fairly certain it won't be the last time she uses it.

* * *

An hour later, she finds him dry heaving behind her standard issue SUV just outside the crime scene.

"Patrick?" she asks, laying a hand on his back.

He's leaning over, his hands on his knees, trying to keep it together. He's not particularly successful.

He wipes saliva from his mouth, and Teresa guides him to sit on the bumper of the car. "I'll get you some water." She disappears for a few seconds and returns with her water bottle. She raises it to his lips, and he drinks tentatively, wondering if he'll be able to keep the liquid down.

Still breathing heavily, he leans against the back door of the SUV. Teresa brushes his hair out of his eyes.

"I'm making a really great impression on your first day, aren't I?" Patrick says, still feeling out of breath.

Her eyes are sympathetic. "This isn't a normal case. Even for us."

His eyes betray him by watering. "How old was she?" he manages to get out.

"Two months," she whispers.

He feels bile rise in his throat. His face must lose whatever color it has left because Teresa guides him to hold his head between his knees, and her hand returns to his back.

"Drink the rest of the water," she tells him. "If you feel up to it, maybe you could look around the rest of the house? Avoid the living room, but see what else you can find." She squats next to him to look him in the eye. "Follow me home tonight. Seeing Lizzie will help."

He nods weakly.

* * *

That evening, he holds Lizzie and Teresa holds him as he sobs silently for the milestones the murdered infant will never get to mark.

* * *

"Please welcome Mr. Patrick Jane of the California Bureau of Investigation."

The ballroom is all glittering lights and too-white smiles, standing in stark contrast to the world of murdered infants he'd been absorbed in for the last week. He feels something akin to culture shock at the dichotomy, and he wonders how yellow tape and flashing red and blue lights became more normal to him than working a crowd of suckers.

He steps onto the stage to a warm round of applause and smiles broadly. He scans the room, and he takes in the eager eyes of the donors and the skeptical stares of the CBI employees. Most of the donors - the women, at least - are wearing jewels worth more than a typical agent's yearly salary; their clothes are all designer. It's a world he's not at all saddened to have left behind.

Patrick steps up to the microphone.

His eyes immediately lock onto Teresa's. She's wearing more makeup than he'd ever seen her wear before, and he swears her smokey eyes alone have increased his heart rate by several beats per minute. Her hair is neither straight nor curly but rather delectably in between, but most enticing of all is the sweetheart neckline of her obsidian dress.

He winks at her.

"My name is Patrick Jane," he says, reaching into his pocket and revealing an egg. "And this is an egg." He holds it up for the crowd to see, and he grins at the puzzled and perplexed looks he receives. "I know you've been promised magic and mischief," he continues, tossing the egg high above him, "but I've decided to stick with just the mischief for tonight."

This gets a hearty laugh from the audience.

"I'm a mentalist," says Patrick, and he takes the microphone from the stand so he can move freely across the stage. "But I don't have to be one to tell you that only approximately one-third of the people here have any idea what that means. For the rest of you: a mentalist is a master manipulator of thoughts and behavior. So, yes, I know precisely which people here are thinking of skipping out early - tsk, tsk," he interjects sternly. "I also know the surprising (or perhaps unsurprising) number of you thinking that a black tie event is going to increase your chances of getting lucky tonight."

Patrick see Rigsby chortle. Cho stands next to him; he looks impassive except for a minute upward twitch of the corner of his mouth. Teresa hides her smile behind a sip of champagne.

"But I promised you mischief, so let's not get sidetracked," Patrick says. He scans the crowd, looking for an easy mark. "Ah, excellent," he says as his eyes land on a thirty-something heiress. The diamonds adorning her neck, wrist, and ears are probably the only real thing about her, Patrick decides as he takes in her platinum hair extensions and what he suspects are breast enhancements. She's exactly like every client he's ever had - obnoxiously transparent. "You there," he continues, pointing to her, "with the million dollar smile." He suspects this is actually true. "What's your name?"

"Katy," says the woman, raising her glass to him and smiling coquettishly.

"Katy," Patrick repeats. "Would you be willing to join me on stage for a few minutes?"

Katy flips her hair over her shoulder, and her bracelet catches the light from above. The crowd parts for her. Lifting her silver dress slightly so as to not stumble in her stilettos, she climbs the steps to the stage. Patrick meets her and offers her his arm, then he leads her to the center.

"Katy, we've never met before, correct?"

"Unfortunately, no, we haven't," she confirms to the crowd.

Patrick chuckles. "So there's no way I would know anything at all about your past."

"No," she agrees.

"Excellent," says Patrick again. He releases her arm and takes a step away, reaching inside his jacket to reveal a notebook and black marker. He hands both to her. "I want you to think of your first crush," he says. "Don't tell me; just think of the name."

Katy bites her lip and looks at him from underneath long eyelashes. Her pupils dilate.

"You have the name?" asks Patrick, and she nods. "I am going to close my eyes and turn away, and I want you to write the name in that notebook. Write it nice and large." He takes a few steps and pivots to the side, shutting his eyes and placing his hands over his eyelids. He waits for a few seconds until he no longer hears the sound of Katy writing. "All set?"

"Ready," she says.

"Don't show me the notebook," Patrick says, turning around and stepping back to her. "One more time - please think of that name for me."

She does so, and he follows her eyes. He has the name in a matter of seconds.

"Four letters?" he says. "Yes, four letters. Beginning with an 'A'?"

Her smile tells him he's right.

"Your first crush's name was Alex, am I right?"

Katy looks dumbfounded. "Yes," she says. "Yes, you are." The audience looks on, stunned, until she holds the notebook out for them to see. Four capital letters clearly spell out the name ALEX in tidy handwriting.

Enthusiastic applause suddenly echoes throughout the grand room, and Patrick gives a curt bow. "Thank you," he says, grinning, and he gestures to Katy. "And please join me in thanking Katy for playing along tonight." He tucks the microphone under his arm to bring his hands together, and the audience follows his lead. Patrick then offers her his arm to guide her back off the stage, only turning around again once she has descended the stairs.

He picks a middle-aged man next, asking if he'd agree to be hypnotized. The man, Dylan, consents readily, and when he takes him under, Patrick thinks Dylan's threshold is almost unnaturally low. In less than five minutes, Patrick has Dylan convinced that the crowd before them is actually a sea of merfolk. He almost feels badly about this - Dylan makes more of a fool out of himself than most of Patrick's hypnotized subjects usually do - but because he'd seen the man yelling at a bartender earlier for not mixing a drink quickly enough, Patrick lets the bit go on longer than he normally would. This he does by telling Dylan that he is a secret agent, and the man wanders the stage for several minutes, ducking behind the microphone stand and making finger guns as Patrick works the room. The crowd roars in approval.

Patrick hears Rigsby guffaw.

Patrick's expression is impassive as he brings Dylan out of his hypnotic state. The crowd applauds Dylan heartily as he walks off the stage, and Patrick turns back toward them.

"Thank you!" he says again. "Thank you very much. It has been my absolute pleasure to entertain you this evening. If, in fact, you were entertained, I do hope that you'll consider making a donation to the CBI - each dollar you give helps us use our unique skillsets to keep this state safe. Oh," he adds, as if as an afterthought. "I forgot about one last bit of mischief - " He turns to an elderly gentleman near the front. "You there! Please reach into your pocket and reveal what's inside."

The man frowns but obeys. He pulls a live chick from his suit and holds it up for the crowd to see.

Patrick grins and puts the microphone back on the stand, bowing slightly once more in response to the crowd's approving cheers and exiting the stage. He takes a deep breath and turns to find Teresa.

Instead, he finds himself face to face with Katy. He takes a step back, flustered.

"That was incredible," says Katy, flashing her dazzling smile at him breathlessly as a live band takes the stage and begins tuning their instruments.

"Thank you," says Patrick. She moves closer still.

"How do you do it?" Katy asks.

His answer is automatic. "Can't reveal my secrets, I'm afraid."

Her smile is more seductive than coquettish this time. "I bet I could convince you to change your mind," she says. Once upon a time, this was exactly the type of bet he would have taken.

The live band starts playing a slow song, and Katy places her hand on his bicep.

"Dance with me," she says, and it's not a question.

Patrick stutters. "I…sorry," he says. "I've promised my partner the first dance."

"As long as I get the last one," says Katy. He stares determinedly ahead, careful not to drop his eyes to the cleavage just inches from him.

"Right," he says, not thinking, and he makes his escape.

He takes the long way around the center of the room as dancers make their way forward. He excuses himself as politely as he can when several other donors attempt to stop him - he knows he still has a job to do, but all he really wants to do is hold Teresa. He can schmooze later.

Eventually, he finds her, still chatting with Rigsby and Cho. She and Rigsby flash him amused smiles when he joins them, and Cho claps him on the shoulder. "They'll be talking about that one for years," he says. Patrick can't determine if he means this as a compliment.

"It was good, man," says Rigsby. "Cool to see you in your element."

"Thanks, Rigsby," Patrick says. He looks over at Teresa, who rolls her eyes.

"You know precisely how good you are," she says, and he grins.

"How'd you get the chick into his pocket?" asks Rigsby.

Patrick beckons the group closer. "He's almost deaf and nearly senile. The chick was planted the moment I bumped into him at the entrance. He never noticed."

Teresa takes another sip of her champagne and shakes her head, smiling.

Patrick turns to her, takes her empty glass and offers her his arm in exchange, and sets the glass on a passing busboy's tray. "Can I have this dance?" he asks.

Teresa threads her arm through his but doesn't say anything, and Patrick leads her away from Cho and Rigsby.

"Are they okay with…whatever this is?" he asks her as they settle into a spot on the floor. He places his hand on the small of her back, and she rests hers on his right upper arm. The fingers of his left hand twine with hers.

"They like that I'm happy," says Teresa. He starts to sway them to the slow music, and Teresa looks up at him. "That's all they care about. It doesn't hurt that they like you, too."

He nods. "Good," he says. "They've been helping with my self defense training, but that doesn't mean I could actually stand my own if they decided I was bad news for you."

Teresa leans forward and rests her head against his chest. She hums indistinctly.

A few seconds later, she stiffens, and Patrick follows her line of vision.

 _Katy. Damn it._

The heiress is watching them with a cunning look in her eye that makes Patrick exceedingly uncomfortable.

Teresa turns her head toward him. "What did she say to you?" she asks into his neck.

"She wanted to dance," sighs Patrick.

Teresa's grip tightens on his arm. "You need to ask her, then," she says. "She's the daughter of the richest man in Sacramento. Word is he's looking at donating elsewhere this year. If we can convince him differently…"

"How much trouble will I be in if I don't?"

"That money could save lives, Patrick. It could fund several officers' salaries for the year."

He groans. "Alright, alright. I will follow your infallible moral compass. But after I dance with her, that compass better point straight back to you."

"You think you can win her over in one dance?" asks Teresa. "Better bet on at least two."

"One," says Patrick firmly. "I came here with every intention of spending the entire evening holding you, and my plans will not be thwarted by an entitled heiress."

"Glad to hear it," Teresa says, and he feels her lashes brush his neck as she closes her eyes.

The song ends soon after that, and Teresa withdraws.

"Go," she says tenderly. "I have some other donors I need to chat up anyway."

Before she can walk away, he grabs her hand and pulls her back to him. He holds her gaze as he kisses her fingers.

Then they part.

Patrick walks toward the stage where he'd last seen Katy standing. It doesn't take long for him to find her. Several men have gathered around her while she tells some story; by the looks of it, the tale is incredibly entertaining. Patrick suspects the men's captured attention and eager smiles have more to do with either Katy's chest or checkbook - _or both_ , he thinks - than her cheeky sense of humor.

He catches her eye.

"Patrick!" she says with enthusiasm that seems just a hair too bright. She hands her mixed drink off to her nearest suitor and wades through the crowd. "You owe me a dance," she continues as she comes to stop in front of him.

He offers her his arm. "Shall we?"

Her grip is slightly too tight, her smile too bright.

Patrick leads her to the center of the dance floor and begins to sway them to the beat of the current number. It's more sensual than he would have liked, and Katy takes this as an invitation, pressing her torso against his.

With her stilettos, she's at his eye level, and he can't help wishing he was gazing into another pair of eyes - a much finer pair of eyes.

"I've been coming to these things for years, but I don't remember you, Patrick," she says. "And I would have remembered you."

"I'm a new volunteer," he confirms.

Katy's eyes slowly make their way up and down his body. He has the eerily uncomfortable feeling that she's reading him in her own way.

"You're from my world, aren't you?" she says.

He raises an eyebrow.

Katy straightens his bowtie. "Your suit," she supplies. "It's Armani."

Patrick looks away and shifts uneasily, and this confirms Katy's suspicions.

"You're the psychic from Malibu, right?"

Patrick regrets choosing this woman as his mark. "Fake psychic," he corrects. "I don't…I'm not part of that world anymore."

Katy somehow manages to move closer. "So tell me, Patrick. People who wear suits like yours don't work for the state. How'd they snag you?"

Before he realizes what he's doing, his eyes flash to Teresa, who appears adorably uncomfortable as she talks to an older woman whose earrings cost more than all of Lizzie's care items combined.

Katy notices.

"Is that her?" she asks. "Your partner?"

Patrick forces himself to return his attention to Katy. He nods.

Katy sighs. "Pity," she says after some consideration. "If you weren't in love with her, I'd have a much better chance of getting you to say yes when I ask you back to my hotel room tonight."

Patrick clears his throat.

Katy slides her hand from his upper arm to his chest.

"I don't have to be a mentalist to see how you look at her," she says. "And don't worry - now that I see it, I won't ask."

Patrick sighs. "If it's any consolation, the psychic would have said yes."

She beams. "I don't have to be psychic to know that, either," she says. The music slows, and Katy leans in to whisper in his ear. "I'll have a word with my father, see what I can do about convincing him to make that donation."

The band hits their last notes to polite applause, and Patrick's hands are suddenly holding only air as Katy steps back. "See you next year, Patrick," she says. She begins to walk away before he calls out to stop her.

He moves closer to her to ensure they aren't overheard.

"Invite Agent Willows over there to your suite. He looks the type to be a gentle and attentive lover."

Katy looks affronted for a fraction of a second. Then a grin flashes across her face, and Patrick goes in search of Teresa.

* * *

Teresa's look of relief as he appears at her elbow is more effective at jump-starting his heart than would be a defibrillator. He feels her lean into him slightly, and he offers his hand and his charm smile as Teresa introduces him to the donor to whom she had been speaking.

Ninety seconds later, the donor has given her word that she'll be sending a check to headquarters. Patrick asks her a few questions more with feigned interest before he feels it is appropriate to take their leave.

"If you'd excuse us," he says smoothly. "I promised Teresa a dance, and this happens to be one of her favorites."

"Of course," says the woman, smiling broadly at Patrick.

Patrick leads Teresa to the center of the room, where she hisses at him, "I've never heard this song before."

He grins, and they fall together. "Meh. Details. After you hear it, it will be your new favorite."

"Is that so?" she says as she laughs. Instead of hiding her smile, as he'd expected, she straightens her spine and holds his gaze.

Also unexpected is the way her movements cause her breasts to brush against him.

His eyes flash down to porcelain skin, and he loses his timing. When he looks up, now swaying to the beat again, Teresa is giving him a knowing smile, and he flushes, knowing he's been caught. He tries to cover this by trailing a finger over the small of her back. He delights in the shiver he feels tremble through her body when his touch meets bare skin.

He's rarely seen her in attire that reveals so much skin, he reflects. Though she knows his body as intimately as a lover, hers is still unfamiliar to him. He's seen her nurse Lizzie, yes, but he'd always taken great pains to look away or help her cover up. Tonight, however, he allows himself to look, to linger - because how can he not?

And what he sees has stolen his breath and mind. The curve of her hips, the soft skin of her breasts. He imagines a room with just enough light to allow him to find the zipper to her dress; he pictures letting the silk fall to a pile on the floor. He suspects it would look better there anyway.

What would it be like? Them, together? In the most physical sense of the word? He can't imagine any possibility in which they are less than perfection. He has no false modesty about his abilities, knows he's far better than average. And Teresa already has power over his body that transcends his ability to describe with mere words. Moving with her - moving inside her -

His mind hazes over in ecstasy.

Reason sobers him quickly, however. Teresa's admission exactly a week ago was bittersweet – yes, he has an idea of her feelings, but he also knows she isn't free to act on them. She isn't capable of being in a true relationship.

She doesn't know how.

And he can't push. His fantasy must remain only that for the foreseeable future. Given time, she will heal; she will be ready.

But what if…

What if she never is? What if she can never surrender? What if she never becomes capable of giving her heart away? Can he live with that? Can he be satisfied with such a love?

Will it break him, destroy him?

Patrick brushes a kiss to Teresa's shoulder.

 _It might_ , he admits.

And yet he finds himself, time and again, asking for one more dance.


	13. Chapter 13

Days, and then weeks, pass. They get justice for some but not for others; Patrick takes solace in that the number of the former far exceeds the number of the latter.

He develops an after-work routine. Mondays and Wednesdays are for self defense lessons with Rigsby and Cho, respectively; while they spar, Patrick teaches them the tools of his trade. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, he attends his meetings, and immediately afterward continues volunteering his services as a hypnotist.

He spends most Friday evenings, Saturdays, and Sundays with Teresa and Lizzie, either at his apartment or Teresa's condo. Their grueling schedules and resulting exhaustion rarely allow them to venture into town, but Patrick finds he prefers the domesticity anyway.

Sundays, with the promise of the dawning week, quickly become his favorite. He's quite adept at brainstorming excuses for Teresa and Lizzie to spend Saturday nights at his apartment, so Sunday mornings are never spent alone.

By silent agreement, his body checks take place on Sundays as well. He grins whenever he thinks of the most recent of these, during which Teresa had paused during her examination of his biceps, her attention clearly drawn by the difference in muscle mass since she'd first become familiar with his body. He couldn't keep his skin - and his gaze - from heating as she'd looked at him.

Her eyes had been so clear, her soul transparent, as it often is for him. He can read her faster than a heartbeat or a nerve impulse; he always has been able to.

Until today.

Patrick greets her in the bullpen as usual, and she responds as usual, but there's a cloudiness, a haze covering her eyes that he's never seen before. Thrown off balance, Patrick watches her closely. He follows her movements at the crime scene, steals glances at her in the car, brings her an extra cup of coffee in the afternoon.

But the fog doesn't lift.

Rigsby and Teresa are prepping for their last interrogation of the day when Patrick turns to Cho in the observation room. "Something's not right."

Cho blinks three times in rapid succession. _That's the most emotion I've seen out of him in a month_ , thinks Patrick, and suddenly he's counting dates, wondering if it all adds up.

He reaches out to the glass, sliding his hand down until he can grip the ledge of the one-way mirror.

Cho glances at him. "Yeah," he says simply.

"One year ago today," whispers Patrick.

Cho nods tersely.

Patrick's knuckles turn ivory.

Cho sighs. "Look, you're closer to her than Rigsby and I are. Will you...keep an eye on her tonight?"

Patrick raises an eyebrow. "You think she'll want my company?"

"Don't care if she wants it or not," says Cho, and his tone leaves no room for argument. "She needs it."

* * *

Patrick knocks on the doorframe at ten minutes to five, and he watches as Teresa pulls her gaze from the window and focuses on him.

"Hey," she says quietly.

"Hi," he says, his tone similarly delicate. He steps into the office. "Can I give you a ride home?"

She considers him, and they converse without words. She nods, and he reaches for her jacket before holding it out for her to slide her arms through. He lifts her hair from underneath the collar.

The drive to Lizzie's childcare center is silent, though Patrick isn't bothered by this; he's not sure what to say anyway. Teresa straps Lizzie into the carseat Patrick had bought ages ago as the infant gurgles and babbles.

A few minutes later, Patrick pulls up to Teresa's condo and kills the ignition, but Teresa doesn't move. He waits, silent, knowing he needs to give her time.

Eventually she opens up. "Would you mind if I stayed at your place tonight?" she asks, staring out the window at her condo.

Patrick understands suddenly that Lizzie was likely conceived there.

He starts the car. "Not at all," he says as he puts on his signal and pulls out into the road.

* * *

Patrick starts to prepare chicken alfredo, and Teresa sits down at the kitchen table to nurse Lizzie. He tosses her a towel to drape over her chest; she tosses him a weary smile as the water starts to boil over the stove.

He's dropping the noodles into the water when she asks, "Are you religious?"

He takes his time answering, and he becomes entranced by the rising bubbles before he turns down the heat. "The short answer is no," he says finally.

She looks over at him. "And the long answer?"

He stirs the pot. "I, uh...I used to consider myself an atheist," he admits. He hastens to explain. "It's kind of difficult to believe in a benevolent God when you're detoxing from cocaine." Teresa nods in understanding as he continues. "But now, the truth is...I just don't know. Hell certainly exists. If that's true, I guess I don't see any reason why Heaven shouldn't either." He looks down again at the noodles. "But if I'm being honest, my opinion on religion has changed drastically since I met you."

Teresa shifts slightly to square her shoulders with him. "Why?"

Patrick leans his hip against the kitchen island and turns to face her. "Your faith, as far as I'm concerned, is the most holy thing on this earth. And you have faith in God." He shrugs, turning back around to search for the strainer. He finds it in a cupboard overhead and places it in the sink. "It's hard for me not to want to have that same faith."

"We've never talked about religion before," notes Teresa. "Not ever. How do you know I have faith in God?"

Patrick smiles at her. "I know a hell of a lot more than that. I know you're a devout Catholic. I know you attend Mass every Sunday, with the only exceptions being those lazy mornings when we can't bring ourselves to leave bed. I know you pray for me every night - you pray for my safety, but mostly you pray that I'll be strong enough to stay clean. I know you used to have a cross necklace that you got from your mother, but somewhere along the line the clasp broke and you lost it and you can't bear to get a replacement."

She gapes at him. "Sometimes I really wonder if you're not psychic."

He shrugs. "Most of that stuff was easy to read."

"Come on. My cross? How did you know that?"

"I've caught you reaching for the space between your collarbones on more than one occasion, usually when there's something stressful going on - for example, when I first told you about my addiction. You're not the type for jewelry, so if you'd made a habit of wearing a necklace, it had to be important." He waves the spoon in his hand. "Hence, something with religious value likely given to you by your mother."

Teresa shifts Lizzie to her other breast. Patrick drains the noodles and checks the sauce as Teresa says, "I lost it while working one of my first cases at SFPD. Eric and I went back to check for it, but we never found it."

"I'm sorry," says Patrick.

She brushes this off. "It's just a necklace."

"Not to you," he points out.

She doesn't argue.

He turns off the stove, sets down the spoon, and walks over to the table, grabbing a chair and sitting down next to her. He watches as Lizzie nurses, and Teresa stares determinedly down at her daughter.

"You're wondering if I believe in the afterlife," Patrick hedges.

Besides an almost imperceptible quiver of her bottom lip, she doesn't react. After almost a minute, Teresa finally answers.

"I just need to believe that he's someplace," she whispers. "Maybe that's foolish, but - "

Patrick reaches out to place a hand on her elbow. "No," he says firmly. "No, it's not."

* * *

An hour later, Lizzie is on her stomach in her playard, testing the limits of her upper body strength by pushing herself up repeatedly on her forearms. Each time she does so, she begins giggling uncontrollably.

"Wouldn't want to mess with that kid," says Patrick. "She'll be taking down suspects in no time."

He's lying prone on his couch, and Teresa lays on top of him, her head tucked under his chin. His arms are wrapped around her, his hands resting on her back. Both their heads are turned to watch Lizzie, who shrieks in delight and gurgles indistinguishable sounds.

She's far from speaking coherent words, but Patrick hears the beginnings of sounds. "She's growing so quickly," he murmurs.

"I know," Teresa responds. "She'll be talking back to us in no time."

"I can teach her to do that in more than one language, if you'd like."

He feels a hot puff of air as she laughs. "No French swear words until she's a teenager," she says.

"But insults are fine?"

Teresa tweaks his ear.

He trails the back of his index finger down her arm and clears his throat. "Have you...have you thought about what she'll call me?"

She tenses. "What would you prefer?"

"Patrick is fine," he says hurriedly. "It's just...at the beginning, she'll likely only be able to manage one syllable, and _Pa_ sounds...well it sounds like something a child would call their father."

"Oh," says Teresa.

"I just don't want to overstep any boundaries. I'm not trying to replace him."

"I know," she says, breathing out and sinking back into him. He feels one of her hands begin to play with the hair at the nape of his neck. "Actually," she says, "that reminds me of something I'd wanted to talk to you about." She wraps a curl around one of her fingers. "I know you're agnostic, but Lizzie's baptism is coming up and I'd...I'd like you to be there."

He's sure she can hear the way his heart flutters under her ear. "Count me in," he says.

"Good," says Teresa. "It'd look odd if the godparent wasn't present."

He's felt less shaken after earthquakes.

"What?" he asks, sitting up and pulling her with him.

Teresa's hand is still tangled in his hair. "If something happens to me, will you take care of her?"

He blinks rapidly. "Nothing's going to happen to you," he chokes out.

"But if it does - "

"I'll be her godparent, yes, Teresa, of course I will."

"Then I think _Pa_ will work just fine," says Teresa, and Lizzie babbles in agreement.

He nearly faints back into the couch cushions, Teresa still pressed against his chest. He breathes heavily, and the movements cause her torso to shift with him. It reminds him of the intimacy he's felt after sex, but this is different - this is somehow _more_.

She dares to raise her head slightly, bringing her eyes level to his, and sea-green meets jade. His foot slides up her calf. She's still unreadable.

"I haven't been able to tell what you're thinking all day," he admits.

She quirks an eyebrow at him. "Really?" she murmurs.

"You're usually transparent," he says. "But not with this."

She brushes the pad of her thumb over his eyebrow and the wrinkles beginning to form at the corner of his eye.

"Guilt," she whispers. "Overwhelming, all-encompassing guilt." Her hair falls into her eyes, and he tucks it behind her ear. "And all the grief and heartbreak you'd expect I'd feel today as well, I suppose. The sadness I can deal with." She closes her eyes. "The guilt is harder."

"Teresa, look at me."

She drops her forehead to his then opens her eyes.

Another silent conversation.

He smiles tenderly, kisses her nose.

Then he settles her back against his chest.

"Where is he buried?" Patrick asks.

"Alexandria Cemetery," Teresa breathes.

"You haven't been there since the funeral, have you?"

"No."

He traces the backs of her vertebrae. "Maybe someday," he begins tentatively, "you could take Lizzie there."

He feels her nose nuzzle his neck. "How will I tell her about him? What do I say?"

"There's nothing you could possibly say wrong. Her father lived and died a hero."

Teresa suddenly rolls gracefully off the couch and stands up in a fluid motion. She holds out her hand to Patrick, and when he reaches for her, she pulls him to his feet. "Let today be someday," she says. "Come with Lizzie and me?" she adds.

He can only nod faintly.

* * *

Alexandria Cemetery is on the other side of the city, and Patrick takes a detour to stop by a florist. He parks the Citroen just as the owner is locking up for the night, but he uses a combination of his charm smile and his wallet to convince her to sell him a dozen pink carnations. The sun is setting by the time he has the flowers in hand, and he thanks the owner and heads back to the Citroen, handing off the bouquet to Teresa. His fingers brush against hers as he does so, but she doesn't allow him to break the contact, holding tight to his hand the rest of the ride there.

She only lets go when they park on the side of the cemetery, handing the flowers back to him. Patrick meets her on her side of the car as she unbuckles Lizzie. The infant is wide awake but uncharacteristically silent, as though she can sense the gravitas of the moment. Teresa straps Lizzie to her chest in her purple baby carrier, and they set off.

Though he can't make out the names on the grave markers in the dying light, Teresa leads him through the sea of stones as the sky turns from mauve and magenta to indigo. He soon spots the marker she's heading toward, and he stops several feet back to allow Teresa to approach alone.

She stands for several minutes at the foot of the grave, and he can sense her hesitation to move closer. Flesh, blood, and bone is now just bone. His hand grips the stems of the flowers too tightly.

Eventually, Patrick sees Teresa's shoulders rise up, as though she's breathing in deeply to steel herself. Then she takes a step forward, then another, and then another, until she drops to one knee before the gravestone, placing a hand on the marker.

Patrick looks up at the darkening sky, wishing the stars were bright enough to be seen through the light pollution from the city. Despite this, though, he catches a glimpse of a flash across the sky - the first shooting star he's ever seen. Teresa, with her head bowed, doesn't catch it, but he makes a wish for her.

A second later, she stands again, backs up, and looks over her shoulder. He steps toward her, holding out the carnations.

"What do they mean?" she asks, her voice thick.

"I will never forget you," he supplies, and she places the bouquet against the headstone.

Teresa winds an arm around Patrick's, her other hovering protectively over Lizzie.

"She has his smile," she whispers.

They stand together for another minute, then Teresa tugs at his arm.

"You ready?"

Suddenly, he's not. "Can I take a minute?"

She nods. "I'll meet you at the car."

When she's fallen out of earshot, Patrick looks up at the sky once more.

He's not convinced that anyone is listening. That anyone is out there.

But on the chance that someone is...

"If I could," he begins, "I'd trade places with you. She loved you; she was in love with you. She still is. And she deserves to have everything." He taps his thumbs against each other then shoves his hands into his pockets. "But since I can't, I'll do the next best thing. I'll love her more than anyone else in this world is capable of. I'll love Lizzie with absolutely everything I have. And I'll do everything in my power to keep both of them safe. I owe her that; I owe _you_ that." He wipes not unexpected moisture from his eyes and glances at the flowers. "They won't forget you. You'll be part of them, always, and I wouldn't want it any other way." He clears his throat. "I'm sorry I never got the chance to meet you. The world...well, it's worse off without you in it."

Patrick takes a deep breath.

"Be well, Eric. I hope you're at peace."

And he turns away from the dark.

* * *

Their limbs are tangled. Heat from the electric fireplace licks their skin, but the way it envelops them is comforting. Lizzie is asleep in the guestroom, the baby monitor quiet on the coffee table.

He's wearing a tee shirt and boxers; Teresa has donned one of Patrick's dress shirts as makeshift pajamas. She lays on the ground next to him before the fire, and every time she moves, the shirt shifts to reveal skin he's never seen before. He catches a glimpse of scarlet lace and has to close his eyes.

* * *

Teresa falls asleep on his arm just after ten o'clock. He watches the fire illuminate her profile before shifting to lift her up with one arm at her back and the other below her knees. As he stands, she fusses slightly, but he shifts so her head falls against his chest and she stills. He flicks the switch to turn off the fireplace as he leaves the living room and grabs the baby monitor in a precarious grip, careful not to lose his balance.

He heads down the hall toward the guestroom, and Teresa murmurs against him, "Where do you think you're going?" Her words are slurred.

He stops and changes direction, heading back to the master bedroom where he lays her in his bed. He kisses her cheek, tucks her beneath the sheets, and joins her.

* * *

Sleep doesn't claim him nearly as easily.

He doesn't particularly mind; after all, if his eyes are closed, he can't see her, and she is his favorite view. It's impossible to stop himself from reaching out, and he tentatively lays a hand on her jaw, brushing his thumb over her upper lip.

He'd read somewhere that the skin of the lips contains more nerve endings than other areas of the body by an order of a thousand. He's felt Teresa's lips on his skin, and the sensation is beyond exquisite. He can't begin to imagine how she'd feel on _his_ lips.

He realizes he might never get to do more than imagine, never be able to show her how in love with her he is. She might never know how much he worships her, never know how he wishes he could twine the strand of his life with hers and Lizzie's.

A tear slips from his eye.

A sharp cry from the baby monitor reveals Lizzie is also awake, and Patrick reaches over Teresa to shut off the monitor before she, too, is awoken. He rolls out of bed and tiptoes into the guestroom, picking up Lizzie with a familiarity that surprises him. She quiets immediately in his arms, looking up at him with her mother's piercing gaze.

As Lizzie calms, Patrick's control slips, and he kisses her neck as splashes of salty water land on Lizzie's messy hair.

He'd been wrong before, he admits as he weeps and tries to force air into his ribcage. He'd thought there was a possibility that falling in love with Teresa when she couldn't return his feelings would destroy him.

Now he's certain it will.


	14. Chapter 14

"Lisbon, Jane - my office."

Minelli is already walking out of the bullpen by the time Patrick looks up from the battered brown leather couch he'd filched from a storage room two months ago. Crime scene photos are scattered on nearly every surface of the couch - excluding the arm where he's currently perched - as well as over his desk and multiple whiteboards. Patrick catches Teresa's eye and raises an eyebrow in question. She shrugs in response but stands, and he follows her down the hall.

"Sir?" says Teresa when they enter Minelli's office.

"Close the door and take a seat," Minelli says, and Patrick and Teresa share another glance before Patrick reaches for the door to swing it shut. They both sit across from Minelli's desk, and Patrick makes an effort to keep his fingers from fidgeting.

Minelli leans forward. "So, Jane, your performance at the fundraiser a few months ago attracted some attention."

"The good or bad kind?"

Minelli chuckles. "The good kind. Apparently word made its way to the FBI field office in Las Vegas that you're quite the showman. They'd like your help on a case they're very eager to close."

Patrick gestures for him to continue, noting out of the corner of his eye that Teresa looks wary.

"Word is that a magician named Jack Hellion has been purchasing large amounts of recreational drugs."

Patrick sits forward. "Jack?"

Teresa glances at him. "You know of him?"

"He opened for me when I was doing shows in Vegas," says Patrick.

She narrows her eyes at him, and he sighs.

"He also supplied me with cocaine the first time I used," Patrick adds.

Minelli leans back in his chair, steepling his fingertips and pointing at Patrick. "The FBI has what they believe to be a reliable source claiming that Hellion is beginning to branch out further. Not only is he consuming, but he's now selling to other stage acts. In Las Vegas and across state lines."

"Cocaine?" asks Patrick, and he begins drumming his fingers against the armrest. He can feel Teresa watching him with deep concern, and he quiets his hands.

"Speedball," says Minelli tersely. "The FBI knows you're friends with Hellion, and they've made arrangements for you to open for his shows for an extended period of time."

"First of all," interjects Patrick, "we're acquaintances, not friends. And he should be the opening act for me, not the other way around."

He catches Teresa rolling her eyes. Minelli looks amused.

"Sorry," Patrick mumbles.

Minelli continues as though there had been no interruption. "You wouldn't even have to don a real cover for the op, as the Special Agent in Charge thinks your background is appropriate cover enough."

Patrick crosses his arms against his chest. "Let me guess. My descent into drugs messed my bookings, so now I'm working my way back up?" He can't help but feel irked. "My drug addiction isn't common knowledge, you know. I'd kind of like to keep it that way."

Minelli conspicuously avoids this last bit. "Your addiction would explain why you've been MIA from this world for several months now. It would also explain why someone with your name recognition would be opening for Hellion. If you're seen as unreliable, no casino is going to want to have you as the headliner until you've re-established yourself."

"So my job would be…" Patrick says as Teresa tenses.

"Get Hellion to trust you. Get information on his supplier and buyers. And purchase what he's selling so we can document the deals."

There's a beat of silence before Teresa stands up. "With all due respect, sir - _no way in hell_." She's livid, hands clenched into fists, jaw tight, a slight quiver in the set of her shoulders. She's water on a hot stove, one degree away from boiling, from hell breaking loose. "You want to send a _recovering addict_ undercover on a drug op? Have you lost your mind?" Her voice is sharper and more violent than a dagger.

"Lisbon, you're out of line," warns Minelli.

As she speaks, her voice rises, and she's yelling by the end. "No, sir - _you're_ out of line. If he agrees to this op, he could relapse. _He could die_."

"Lisbon - " Minelli's voice is threatening.

"The answer is no," says Teresa.

"Unfortunately, you don't get to decide that, Lisbon. The only reason you're present at this meeting at all is because you're Jane's direct superior, and I wanted to keep you in the loop." He leans forward and sighs. "Look, Jane, I'm not ordering you to take the assignment. I'm just suggesting you take it. It could go a long way to mending some broken bridges between the CBI and FBI. And I wouldn't have even approached you about it if I didn't think you could handle it." There's a look of genuine concern on his face. "I know it's a lot to ask, which is why I almost didn't ask you at all. But your work here has been exemplary. You exposed Hannigan and his team, and you put Cross and his accomplices behind bars. I know you could do even better on a grander stage. Just think about it."

Teresa moves between Minelli and Patrick, as though shielding the latter from the former. Patrick wonders if she even realizes what she's doing.

"Sir," she says, and even with her back to him, Patrick can sense the rage in her posture. "Don't you see the hypocrisy in a pack-a-day smoker with a growing drinking problem asking a recovering cocaine addict to participate in a drug op?"

"Teresa - " says Patrick quietly.

At the same time, Minelli says, "Lisbon, take a walk." He gestures for her to leave. "Shut the door behind you."

Teresa just stares him down.

" _Now_ ," says Minelli.

She swears more colorfully than Patrick has ever heard her swear before, and then she leaves, slamming the door so roughly that the glass rattles.

Patrick turns back to Minelli.

Minelli is watching him with a curious gaze.

"What?" asks Patrick.

"I've never seen her lose it like that," Minelli says. "Are the two of you - "

Patrick shakes his head. "No," he says quickly. "No, of course not."

Minelli seems to take this at face value. "Good," he says. "Fraternization between CBI employees on the same team isn't allowed, and I wouldn't want to have to write her up for it." He scratches his chin in agitation.

"What else?" says Patrick, inching toward the edge of his seat.

"There's nothing else," says Minelli with the tone of someone who knows exactly _what else_ he's hiding.

"Come now, Virgil. How long are we going to pretend that I don't know whenever someone lies to me?"

Minelli scrubs a hand over his face.

"Virgil," says Patrick again.

Minelli sighs. "John Gennari opted not to donate to the CBI this year."

It takes Patrick only a millisecond to place the name. "Katy's father?"

Minelli nods.

"We're not getting a penny?" Patrick is astounded. "I danced with Katy. She said she was going to put in a good word with her father."

Minelli looks apologetic. "She did," he says. "But that was before this came out earlier today." He opens a drawer to his left, grabs a magazine, and hands it to Patrick.

Patrick doesn't need to ask which article Minelli wants him to read.

 _NOT SO MAGIC EIGHT-BALL: "PSYCHIC" FAILS TO FORESEE HIS FALL_

 _Patrick Jane, 35, widely known for his talents as a psychic and hypnotist, has been off the grid for months. Though this was once thought to be the result of the demands of fatherhood - he was spotted with a mystery woman and newborn baby several times in Malibu - Jane's absence from the limelight is now known to be due to a much more nefarious cause: drugs._

 _An anonymous insider who once worked for Jane answered questions exclusively for_ The Daily Leader _. She revealed that though Jane thought he was hiding his drug use, he was fairly obvious about it._

" _Jane was constantly high," said the source. "You could see it in his eyes. He'd sneak drugs onto planes and into bathrooms, and sometimes he wouldn't even bother sneaking them."_

 _The insider also revealed the psychic used an eclectic assortment of recreational - and illegal - drugs. "Heroin, morphine, cocaine, hallucinogens," she said. "After a show, he'd pick whatever audience member had the largest breasts, shoot himself up, and then they'd bang until he crashed. If he didn't have a show, he'd pay someone."_

Patrick doesn't need to read any further. He crumples the tabloid and heads for the exit without saying another word, following Teresa's example and slamming the door shut in his wake.

* * *

It's like swimming against a riptide.

He's thrown under; he swallows more water than air. His limbs go weak, and he loses the ability to struggle. But before he passes out, he manages one last call for help.

She picks up on the first ring.

"Patrick?"

"I need you," he says with his last breath.

* * *

Time passes, but he's not sure how much. Eventually, though, Teresa arrives, and she opens the door without invitation using the spare key he'd given her for exactly this occasion.

" _Patrick?_ "

He's heard genuine terror in her voice only once before: the night she'd given birth. She says his name now with that same fear, and he doesn't think he can hate himself more.

"Here," he whispers from his place on the bathroom floor.

He hears her fling her keys on the counter as she races toward him, and the lights are suddenly brilliant behind his eyelids. A second later, his eyes are being forced open, and he stares into a sea of green. In her eyes, he finds strength, and he starts to swim against the current.

"Your pupils aren't dilated," Teresa says clinically. She grabs his shirt near his sternum and pulls with surprising force, sending the buttons skidding across the floor. Then she pushes the shirt off his shoulders and roughly pulls his arms out of the sleeves. He falls awkwardly onto his back and shivers on the cool tile. His muscles aren't working, and he can't move on his own. Teresa examines both crooks of his elbows. "No new scars." He watches as she falls to her knees and her eyes betray her emotions within.

He can't manage words.

Her hands move lower, reaching for his belt. She's unsteady, though, so it takes her several tries to unbuckle it and several more to unzip the fly on his pants. Seconds later, she's pushed the pants down and pulled off his socks, and he realizes belatedly she'd also removed his boxers. He tries not to hyperventilate as she examines him everywhere, guiding him to roll over onto his knees to examine his backside.

"No new scars," she repeats again a minute later. "You didn't - "

"No," he confirms, finally finding words.

She leans over him, cradling his head against her chest and running a hand through his hair. "Thank God," she says. "Oh, thank God." Then she rests her lips against his temple.

After several minutes, Teresa is composed enough to speak again.

"What happened?" she asks, sitting back and pulling him toward her. He comes to rest between her legs, naked and still shivering, and her fingers continue wandering over his scalp while her other arm hovers over his back protectively.

He glances pointedly over to the sink, where he'd tossed Minelli's copy of _The Daily Leader._ Teresa reaches for the magazine and un-wrinkles it, and he waits as she begins reading.

Her hands never once tense; she never trembles. Eventually, she sets the tabloid down. "When your publicist called that first week we met," Teresa says, "you gave her permission to run a story on you. You didn't think she knew about the drugs – or the women."

Patrick's grateful for her decision not to sugarcoat the affair. "I thought I was being discreet," he admits. "Of course, I was usually high at the time, so that may have clouded my judgement."

Teresa leans over to kiss his cheek. "I know this is easier said than done, but you shouldn't care what other people think. I adore you and so does Lizzie, and isn't that all that matters?"

He wants so badly for this to be true. "How are you still here?" He's asking himself more than he's asking her.

He can practically feel her confusion. "What do you mean?"

"That article...it's not exactly...flattering." He curls in on himself. "You deserve better," he whispers.

"So it's true?" He hears the pain in her voice. "The other drugs? Prostitutes?"

He can't hold himself up any longer, and he sinks into her arms. "No," he gasps. "I did use cocaine. Never anything else. And I picked up women at shows, but I never paid anyone. Teresa, I didn't lie to you." It takes monumental effort to lift his head to meet her eyes, but he does. "But anyone who's screwed someone over badly enough for stories like that to be written about them...what does that say about me?"

She begins to rock him slightly back and forth, and his breathing gradually evens out.

When it does, he says, "John Gennari has decided it's in the city's best interests to rescind his pledge to the CBI and donate the money elsewhere."

She doesn't speak right away.

Then, finally, she begins, "Patrick - "

"Don't tell me this is not my fault. Don't you dare tell me that."

He closes his eyes. Tears leak out despite his desire to fight them.

Teresa brushes them away as they fall. "I wasn't going to say that. I was going to say that I'm sorry you have to keep facing this. You made a mistake; we all do. But you shouldn't have to keep paying for your mistake." She kisses a tear-stained cheek. "Minelli knew these things about you, and so did the powers that be at the CBI. This won't change their minds."

"What if we lose more donors?"

"Then the money will go to another worthwhile cause, and we'll carry on as we always do at the CBI – underfunded and understaffed."

He laughs sharply at this; he can't argue with her logic.

"You're shaking," notes Teresa.

"Relapsing would be so easy," he whispers. "All I have to do is just…stop resisting."

"But you won't," says Teresa. "You're not going to relapse. You're going to keep fighting." She pulls him to his feet. "You're also ice cold," she says, feeling his forehead. She reaches behind him, and his bathtub begins to fill with water. "In," she orders him. "After you warm up, we're going to the nearest meeting."

He steps into the bath and sits as the water rises around him, and she holds his hand, guiding him to lean back. It takes several minutes for him to stop shaking.

Teresa leans over to turn off the water.

"Where's Lizzie?" Patrick asks as Teresa moves to sit on the tile next to him.

"With Cho and Rigsby," says Teresa. "I don't particularly trust Minelli at the moment," she grumbles. "He gave you the article?"

Patrick nods and closes his eyes, resting the back of his head against the tub. He hears water splash before he feels warmth trickle over his shoulders and chest; he fights a shiver at the intimacy as she pours water over his hair.

"I've never seen you so angry," Patrick whispers.

"Minelli is a great cop," says Teresa. "But there are a lot of people in his generation who don't quite get it. They don't see addiction - or mental illness - as a real disease. He thinks the only way to get over these things is to soldier on, but that's just not effective." She continues pouring water over Patrick's skin as she says, "He was shocked when I asked for an hour a week to see my therapist - couldn't understand why I'd need or want one."

Teresa finishes wetting his curls.

"Did you give him an answer?" she asks softly.

He opens his eyes at her tone.

She's worried. Though normally rather pale anyway, Teresa's face has lost what color it usually has, and her forehead creases with new wrinkles as she frowns.

He had been ready to decline the offer when Minelli had kicked Teresa out of his office. He wasn't willing to sacrifice a year and a half of sobriety for an agency with which he had no ties, after all.

But then he'd found out that his addiction had likely lost the CBI a million dollars. Maybe more. Enough to pay the salaries of twenty cops.

The last time he'd felt such intense self-loathing, he'd been in detox.

He looks into Teresa's eyes and knows she won't approve of his decision. So he decides not to tell her.

At least for now.

"No," he says. "I didn't give him an answer."

* * *

Later, as he stands from the bathtub, dripping water, he becomes painfully aware that he's not wearing any clothing.

"Could you hand me that towel?" Patrick asks her, and there's a two second lag before Teresa seems to compute what he's said.

She grabs the towel and passes it to him, very deliberately holding his eyes.

He grins when a delicious rouge tints her skin, and instead of covering himself, he raises the towel to his head and shoulders to dry his hair first.

"Why am _I_ the one blushing when _you're_ the one who's naked?" she asks.

He can't help from laughing as he towels his hair dry. "Because you looked."

"I did not."

"You're a terrible liar, Teresa. And you're still looking." His voice is slightly muffled by the towel.

" _Am not!_ " she squeaks.

"High voice," he points out, but he takes pity on her and lowers the towel to wrap around his waist.

She tosses his slacks at him. "Put these on," she says. "We have a meeting to go to."

He chuckles and obeys.

* * *

After the meeting, Teresa calls Rigsby and Cho to check in and update them. Then she and Patrick order takeout, and he gives her another of his shirts to wear to bed.

His arms immediately seek her out as soon as she climbs into bed. He falls asleep with his head pillowed on her chest, her fingers stroking his hair.

He wakes in the early morning with his lips against the top of her breast. He's not entirely sure if the top buttons on her - _his_ \- shirt had come undone during the night or if she'd buttoned it that way before getting into bed. He likes both possibilities.

He breathes in deeply, inhaling sweet cinnamon.

He's still convinced her faith is the most holy thing on the planet. And somehow, she's decided to place her faith in him.

Deep down, he knows he doesn't deserve it. His nose nudges her collarbone, and his unworthiness becomes all the more clear.

So later that day, he sends a text to Minelli.

 _I'll do it._


	15. Chapter 15

**AN: This chapter is rated M for language and intense situations.**

* * *

"Can I stop by your place tonight?"

Teresa parks the SUV, cuts the ignition, and looks over at him. He holds her gaze, and he realizes he's spent more time looking into her eyes than anyone else's.

The look she's giving him is identical to the one she wore a week ago when she'd discovered him on his bathroom floor.

He reaches over the console to brush a finger against the back of her hand.

"I'm not in any danger," he says, and she breathes out.

"Sure," Teresa says finally in answer to his original question. "Of course you can."

* * *

An hour later, Cho and Rigsby have succeeded in enticing a confession from their primary suspect, Teresa returns to her office to complete paperwork, and Patrick begins to take down the crime scene photographs from the whiteboards. He's nearly finished when Minelli appears at his shoulder.

"Ready for the briefing?" he asks.

Patrick glances through the glass into Teresa's office. She doesn't look up from her work.

Patrick nods imperceptibly and follows Minelli.

* * *

Waiting in Minelli's office is an FBI agent named Irene Radley. Tall, blonde, and clearly comfortable with her beauty, Radley will fit easily into the world of glitz and glamour in Las Vegas, but Patrick soon realizes her looks are only part of the reason why she's been chosen for the assignment. Radley is sharp and intuitive, her mind far from weak. She'll make a fine partner.

Of course, he would have preferred Teresa, but he'd sooner go through another round of detox than separate her from Lizzie for an extended undercover op.

Radley explains the plan, and Patrick fixes it into his memory palace. Two weeks to get the lay of the land and re-establish rapport with Hellion. Make the first buy at the end of the third week. In the weeks that follow, aim for at least three more deals. Wear a wire at all times.

Patrick nods and looks over at Radley, seated next to him and across from Minelli.

Exactly where, one week ago, Teresa had sat.

"And our story?" asks Patrick. "If you'll be with me on this, I need something to tell Jack."

Radley shrugs. "You know the scene better than I do. What do you suggest?"

"Jack won't get suspicious if we pose as lovers," he says. "But it'll look odd any other way."

"Sounds fair," says Radley.

Patrick leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I assume you've heard of my...history," he hedges.

"Yes," says Radley, nodding.

"Will I be able to attend meetings? Staying clean requires...well, it requires considerable discipline."

Radley looks uncomfortable for the first time, and Minelli swoops in. "That could compromise the op, Jane. If someone sees you at a meeting - "

Patrick waves him off. "I get it," he says, fighting a wave of anxiety.

Radley attempts to cover the moment. "Do you have any other questions for me?"

Patrick leans back in his chair and shakes his head. "No," he says. "I don't think so."

Radley stands up, as does Minelli. Patrick follows suit. The agent shakes both men's hands. "Then I will pick you up at the crack of dawn tomorrow morning, Patrick. Don't want to miss our flight."

"No," says Patrick. "Wouldn't want that." He musters up a false smile that Minelli at least seems to buy. Radley returns the smile over her shoulder as she leaves, and Patrick turns back to Minelli.

Minelli opens his mouth then closes it. Patrick follows his gaze to the hallway.

Teresa stands just beyond the door, her eyes distant and defeated.

Patrick wills her to look at him, and she does so. But then she escapes down the hall, her ebony hair whipping behind her as she rounds the corner.

Patrick swears and races after her.

* * *

"Teresa," he says, his voice already pleading with her before he's even stepped over the threshold of her office.

She spins around from where she's pacing behind her desk, flipping an open case file shut with a snap. "So you're going," she says, her voice emotionless. He would have preferred it if she'd screamed. "When do you leave?"

Patrick looks down. "Tomorrow morning."

"For how long?"

"The FBI thinks it will take at least six weeks," he says.

She folds her arms across her chest, hugging the file close. "Do you have any idea what it's like to live undercover, Jane? Any idea at all?" He registers the use of his surname again. She's developed a habit of it when she's angry with him.

But she doesn't look just angry now. She looks _furious._

He shakes his head mutely.

She pushes her chair out of the way and steps toward the desk.

"Your handler will take your phone away. That means you won't be able to talk to me. You won't be able to hear Lizzie's first words. You won't be able to acknowledge that you know I exist. _For six weeks_. If you even last that long."

"Teresa - "

She holds up a hand. "Could you just let me say this? You've worked here long enough to see that you're not the only one with an addiction. Minelli, Cross...and about a dozen other cops I could name. Probably a dozen more I couldn't. You know why many of them became addicted in the first place?"

Again, he's silent.

"They started using while undercover. When you go on an op, you become isolated. Depression and anxiety aren't possibilities; they're certainties. You look for anything - _anything_ \- that can help you self-medicate. If you don't have an addiction going into an op, there's a high likelihood you'll have one when you're finished. Eric saw that with more than enough of his team."

She hugs the file tighter.

"But do you know the worst part?" she says, her tone like ice. "The worst part is that some ops won't even give you a choice. Some cops _have_ to use in order to establish trust between themselves and the suspect. You think Hellion will trust you if he never sees your pupils dilated, if he never sees new scars on your body, if he never sees you shoot up?" She laughs bitterly. "He won't. And by then you'll be too invested in the game to want to give it up. So you'll use - just to gain access to his inner circle." She sees him begin to protest, and she cuts him off. "Don't," she says. "I've seen this time and time again."

" _Teresa -_ "

She won't have any of it. "Why the _hell_ didn't you talk to me about this? Why couldn't we discuss it? Are we partners or what?"

Patrick takes two steps closer, but it might as well be an ocean between them rather than a wooden desk. "We are partners," he says, imploringly, looking dead at her. " _We are_."

"Partners trust each other! Partners tell each other when they've decided to take a six week assignment that might kill them!"

"Why did you think I wanted to come over to your place tonight?"

She slaps the file down on her desk, sending loose papers flying in every direction. "Oh, like that's supposed to make everything better?" she says acerbically. "You've already made up your mind, but, hey, why not stop over at your partner's to give her a courtesy notice that you're leaving? And while you're at it, you might as well say your final goodbyes since there's a very high likelihood that you'll never see her again!"

"Teresa, I have every intention of coming back to you. _You have to know that_." His hands move of their own accord, as though making grander gestures will make her more likely to believe him.

"Patrick, you also have every intention of staying sober, but that will go out the fucking window as soon as you hold a bag of cocaine in your hands with no one to watch over you!"

Her words are almost strong enough to knock his legs out from underneath him. He staggers slightly, seething, and steps briskly up to her desk. " _You're not an addict_ ," he spits out. "You don't know what it's like. The constant self-loathing. The hatred that _consumes_ me from my very core. If doing this lessens those feelings by one part in a million, it will be worth it."

"You're right." She's breathing heavily, and her voice paradoxically shakes more while becoming stronger. "I don't know what it's like to be an addict. I'll never truly understand. But I know what it's like to be consumed by emotion so powerful you wish you never had to feel again."

He leans forward and places his hands on her desk. His laugh is harsh. "What do you know about feeling?" he hisses. "You don't allow yourself to feel - you never have, _and you never will_."

He regrets the words before he says them. But after coming so close to relapsing, after the maelstrom that was this past week, he can't control himself, and the words escape.

Teresa recoils, her face ashen.

" _You bastard_ ," she whispers.

Then she runs.

He wonders if a bullet to the heart would be less painful.

* * *

He tracks her to a room hidden in the attic behind a sliding metal door.

Knocking three times, he says, "Teresa?"

Her answer is immediate. "Go away."

He sighs. "Please open the door."

" _Go away_."

He leans on the metal, resting both forearms against it. "I'm sorry," he whispers, and then he says more firmly, "I'm sorry. God, I'm sorry. What I said - I didn't mean it. Teresa, _please -_ "

He hears her step toward the door. "If you're really sorry, if you really didn't mean it - prove it. Leave me alone." He thinks he hears her gasp for breath. " _Just leave me alone."_

He backs away.

* * *

Patrick is halfway across the parking lot when he hears a door being thrown open with such force that it slams against the adjacent wall. " _Wait!_ " comes a voice that is now more familiar to him than his own. The urgency conveyed in that one word, however, he has never heard before, and he turns around sharply, watching as Teresa sprints to him through the dark.

"Teresa?" he asks as she approaches, nearly skidding to a halt in front of him. She's winded, but he thinks this is less from her sprint than from something else he can't quite decipher. "Teresa?"

She looks up at him with wide jade eyes rimmed in red. "There's something I need to say," she begins. She's struggling with the words, as though she's almost afraid to say them, and Patrick steps toward her. "What you said - "

"Teresa, I'm so sorry - "

"Let me finish," she orders, and he quiets immediately. "What you said was cruel," Teresa chokes out. "But you were right. You _are_ right. I...I almost gave my heart to someone once. But giving a part of myself away - entrusting my happiness to someone else - I just couldn't do it."

Patrick watches as a lone tear blazes a path down her cheek, and several others follow.

"And after, letting anyone close to me became terrifying," she says. "For obvious reasons. But what's even more terrifying is that someday, something might happen to you, or to me, and you might never know the truth."

He can't remember a time when he'd been more petrified.

"I love you," says Teresa breathlessly. "I can't imagine a future when I wake up and you're not by my side. And I'm terrified, because I'm giving you my heart and now I can't protect it. But living without you knowing - that's worse. You deserve to know; you deserve to hear it." She wipes her eyes. "And if this is something you have to do, I understand. _I understand_. I just couldn't let you leave without making sure you knew."

Her words free him, and he reaches out tentatively, placing two fingers under her chin. They converse for the thousandth time without words, and she rises up, pressing her lips to his, resting fingers at the nape of his neck with a desperate grip. He shivers. She parts her lips, inviting him in.

He doesn't need to be asked twice.

She tilts her head back, and his free hand tangles in her hair, its strands sliding through his fingers like silk.

"I love you," he says against her lips. "God, I love you so much."

It's her turn to tremble, and he drops his arm from her hair to her back, pulling her more tightly against him.

He's suddenly lightheaded, and he pulls back, gasping for air. She grips his forearms as he lurches. He rightens himself, resting his forehead against hers.

He closes his eyes. "I'll stay," he whispers. "I'll stay."

She throws her arms around him and burrows her face into the crook of his neck. He squeezes her torso with one arm, cradles her head with the other, tries to break the laws of physics by pulling her closer still.

"I'll keep it safe," Patrick promises. "Your heart."

And for several minutes, he just holds her, and his collar becomes wet with her tears.

Eventually, she loosens her grip, pulling back to grab his hand and press his palm over her sternum. His fingertips brush her blouse aside to lay against her skin, and he can feel the beats from within her chest, the rhythm of her blood.

"I know," she murmurs. "I know you will."

He kisses her forehead, her jaw, the corner of her mouth, the hollow of her neck. He splays his fingers so he can kiss the skin over her heart. "You've had mine since the moment we met," he whispers, bringing his lips back up to hers. "There was never any choice in my giving it away."

He feels her smile, and more tears drop on his skin. "You're such a hopeless romantic," she says.

Patrick frames her face between his hands. His eyes rove over her, and she looks at him innocently.

" _You heard me_ ," he says in disbelief. "That first night we spent together when I moved into my apartment. The night you had that nightmare. The tears I tasted on your cheek - "

She nods. "Happy tears," she whispers. "But I couldn't say it back, Patrick, not then. I'm so sorry I wasn't ready."

He kisses her. "Don't apologize for that. Never for that." Then he presses a series of open-mouthed kisses down her neck, grinning when her eyes flutter closed. She pulls softly on his curls to direct his mouth upward, and he takes the hint, capturing her mouth again.

"Stay with me tonight," she says, leaning away slightly to look at him. Her meaning is clear, and he drowns in her eyes.

"Are you...are you ready for that?" he murmurs, unsure.

In answer, she pulls him toward her car. He follows willingly.

* * *

Two hours later, he's made several calls, apologized more times than he can count, and offered to pay back the price of his plane ticket. He watches Teresa the entire time - she's holding Lizzie with a tender smile on her face and blushing every time she steals glances at him.

Finally, the rest of the world fades away, and it is only them.

* * *

He's waiting for her in the living room, sans jacket with shirtsleeves rolled up, as she descends the stairs. She approaches, and, like him, she is barefoot. It makes her seem smaller, more delicate somehow.

He reaches into his jacket to pull out an envelope, which he hands to her.

"What is this?" she asks.

"I value your safety more than anything in the world," Patrick says. "You know my history. These," he continues and nods at the envelope, "are my test results. They're up to date." He looks down. "I just, uh...I want you to know that you are safe with me."

Teresa opens the envelope and unfolds the paper, scanning it quickly. He hates that he sees her sigh in relief, but he's able to banish the thought when she rises on her toes to kiss his jaw. "Thank you." She sets the paper aside. "And in the spirit of honesty, I haven't...I haven't been with someone since Lizzie was conceived." She smiles at him. "So you're safe with me, too."

"There was never any doubt of that," Patrick says softly. "Since it's been a while for the both of us, do I need to make a run to the drugstore?"

"Taken care of," Teresa whispers. Her hand finds his and tugs gently.

* * *

He's never been more aware of the sound of his own breathing, of feeling so alive, as he is when he turns around to look at Teresa in her bedroom. She shuts the door to the hallway halfway, allowing soft light to stream in - enough to guide them but not overwhelm them. Her breath hitches, and she steps to him.

"I want you to…" she begins.

He reads it off her before she's finished thinking the thought. "Undress you first?"

She nods. "I need this. I need this for you."

"I know."

With a quivering finger, he pushes back the collar of her blouse to showcase the crook of her neck. He takes her invitation and leans down, pressing several slow, open-mouthed, wet kisses to the skin there, marveling at the way her breathing picks up immediately. His hands find their way back to the buttons of her blouse of their own accord, and when the last of the buttons is dealt with, Teresa lets the shirt drop to the floor. Patrick turns his attention to her collarbone, tracing it with his tongue and then nipping slightly. She moans as his teeth scrape her skin deep enough to leave a mark.

He travels south, breathing in her scent with his nose in her cleavage. He leaves her emerald brassiere for now, though he does palm and stroke her breasts through the silky fabric. Dropping to his knees, he pulls her to him and kisses her abdomen, worshipping the marks that reveal the life she'd carried for nine months.

His hands find their way to the button of her jeans, and he looks up at her with questioning eyes.

She just nods, closing her own eyes as her head rolls back.

He pops the button and unzips the fly. He takes his time pulling down the jeans, tracing the outline of her matching thong and memorizing every inch of skin he discovers. Eventually, he stands again and helps her step out of the fabric.

"Keep going," she breathes.

So he does.

He kneels again and kisses the lace of her thong, feeling overcome when one of her hands grabs a fistful of his hair. Then he nudges the thong aside with his nose and places a hand at each hip. He runs his hands down her thighs, and the fabric follows, and she arcs into him.

The thong falls to her ankles as he makes his way back up, reaching around to unfasten her bra.

Their eyes meet.

She shrugs out of the lace, lets it flutter to the carpet, and she is suddenly bare before him for the first time.

"You're exquisite," he murmurs, already moving to her breasts. She gasps sharply at the first contact, and again when he shifts his attention to the other side.

Then he's lifting her up, encouraging her to wrap her legs around his waist. He's painfully aware of the way his arousal brushes her core with each movement they make, knows it can't have escaped her notice. He holds her to him.

He's still entirely clothed but just about at his breaking point, moving even closer when she shifts to press her breasts against his chest. One of his hands slips lower, guiding her to press her hips more securely against his.

He grinds her once.

She whimpers, so he does it again.

And again.

And again.

She eventually joins him in his rhythm, and he nearly blacks out at the sensation of her muscles gliding under her skin. He grunts into the crook of her neck as he moves.

Then she stills in his arms. Her head falls back, her eyes close, her lips part.

He watches her in awe.

When she returns to him, he walks backward until the backs of his knees come into contact with her mattress. He reaches behind him with one hand to catch himself - though this is made exceedingly difficult when she initiates another kiss.

His head suddenly makes contact with her pillows, and Teresa straddles him, her breasts swaying slightly as she moves. Then she leans down. He wraps his arms around her torso, and upon feeling bare skin again he bucks into her instinctively.

"Faster," he grunts out. "I can't - " He groans, and his back arches. "Faster. Please."

She obeys, making quick work of his buttons.

Skin on skin is heady, heated, hazy - like heaven. It's her turn to explore, and she does so with quiet efficiency, knowing how close he is.

She teases him while taking off his belt but is faster with his slacks, and he lifts his hips to help her pull them away. He hears them land somewhere on the floor, but then his attention is drawn by her dexterous fingers moving south of his navel.

"God," he says, gripping the sheets.

He swears he feels her smile against him.

Then his boxers are gone - damn if he isn't going to ask her to show him that trick later - and she's hovering above him.

"Is this okay?" she asks, placing his hands on her hips.

He can't even respond, but she correctly takes this as response enough.

"Guide me," she says, and he does so.

And everything slows.

She surges up.

He breathes in, oxygen threatening to burst his lungs.

She sinks.

He watches a trickle of sweat from her breast drop onto his sternum, where it burns his skin.

She lifts herself.

He presses his fingers over the muscles of her abdomen, revelling in their strength.

She drops.

He feels.

 _He feels._

She rises.

She falls.

And he meets her.

They dance, and she comes, and he doesn't think he's ever seen anything in the world more radiant, more brilliant than this moment.

"What do you need?" she asks, her voice like air.

"Short," he grunts. "Quick. I'm almost - "

And then suddenly, he is.

* * *

After, she kisses him languidly, without rush, one leg thrown over his hip.

He hasn't been able to catch his breath yet.

" _God_ ," he says again, and she grins against him, only kissing him deeper.

* * *

He supposes they fall asleep at some point - exhausted, sated, in love - because hours later, he wakes to her lips on his. The hallway lamp is off, leaving the room to be illuminated only by the harsh lights of the city sneaking in through the curtains.

He groans and rolls over, pinning her beneath him.

They've done slow; this time is all desperation. He readies her with a few deft movements of his fingers, delighting in her strangled cries as he does so. Then he nudges her legs wider, and she looks up at him with an openness that nearly stops his heart.

He drags his teeth over one breast as he guides himself closer. She's moaning already by the time he enters her.

When he settles in, she holds his gaze. Their bodies still, and he commits it all to memory - commits her feel to memory. Then he laces his fingers with hers, moving them above her head, and begins to thrust.

This time, they break together.


	16. Chapter 16

He wakes just as the sun peeks above the horizon, casting the bedroom in rose gold light.

Teresa lies on her stomach, still asleep, rumpled sheets at her waist, revealing the rest of the galaxy of freckles he'd started mapping eons ago. She's facing toward him with a hand extended; he's not at all surprised to find his palm beneath hers.

He brings her fingers to his lips.

She smiles before she opens her eyes.

"Good morning," he murmurs.

She hums in response. Her eyelids flutter, and she wakes.

"How are you feeling?" he asks.

She laces her fingers with his and tucks his hand beneath her bare chest. The sunlight glows in her eyes, and she smiles again softly. He strokes the top of one breast with the pad of his thumb.

"I am so happy," she says, her voice raw from the previous night.

He uses his free hand to wipe a precariously perched tear from the corner of his eye. "You are?" he says in awe, in reverence.

She gives him a small nod. "I am," she confirms, and his soul practically sings.

* * *

He knocks on the door to her office two hours later.

"Teresa?" he asks tentatively.

She looks up, her expression brightening, and he can't help but smile in return as the door falls shut behind him. "Hey, you," she says, her voice quietly flirtatious, and she sets down her pen.

His fingers drum a nervous rhythm against his thigh. He blurts out, "This isn't going to cause problems for you with Minelli, will it?"

Teresa stands, walking around the side of her desk to lean back against it and face him.

"Of course not," she says, folding her arms across her chest. "Why would you think so?"

He breathes out roughly, the air causing the breezy fabric of her blouse to flutter. "When you stormed out of his office that day, he asked me if something was going on between you and I. He said that fraternization between CBI employees isn't allowed."

"It's not," Teresa confirms, nodding.

"Then I need to turn in my ID," says Patrick. "If this hurts your career - I can't be responsible for that - you're more important - "

He's rambling.

And for some reason, this just makes Teresa smile.

"Patrick," she says, laying a hand on his chest.

He shuts up.

"You're not an employee, are you?" Teresa points out, her smile sly.

He can't breathe. "No," he whispers.

Teresa shrugs then walks back around her desk. "Then I don't see the problem," she says as she sits and resumes her paperwork.

It takes a few seconds for him to catch up. When he does, he says "Right," and he exits her office only to immediately run into Cho in the bullpen.

Cho takes one look at him from his place at his desk and says, "So. Not going to Vegas?"

"Nope," Patrick confirms, glancing back to Teresa's office.

Cho follows his gaze. "Remember the first thing I said to you?"

 _You mess with her, I'll make sure you regret it._

Patrick nods. "Every word." He catches Rigsby smirk.

"Okay," says Cho, and he returns to his file.

* * *

Teresa turns to Patrick in the elevator the next day. "What do you want this to be?" she asks him suddenly, as though she can't wait a second longer.

Patrick considers for several seconds before he answers. "Something strong," he says. "I want us to be strong together."

She brushes a finger against his hand. "I want that, too," she murmurs.

"Do you think we need to have a plan? To have it all mapped out?"

She's shaking her head before he's even finished. "No," she says. "I think we know what feels right, and I think we should let that guide us." She smiles. "It's worked out well so far."

He ducks his head, grinning, and he laughs. "That it has."

* * *

That night, Teresa finds him staring into space after she puts Lizzie to bed. She joins him on the couch, sitting next to him so that their bodies touch from shoulder to hip to thigh.

"I'm no mind-reader, you know," she says.

He blinks and turns to her, focusing on her jade eyes. "I'm not Catholic," he says.

"I know."

"Godparents of children to be raised in the Catholic Church have to be Catholic."

Teresa sighs, and he hears the trees creak outside.

Eventually, she murmurs, "My church believes Lizzie was born out of an act of sin I committed. How could any act that creates something so precious be sinful?" She rests her palm on Patrick's back. "When you and I make love - they also consider that a sin. But wouldn't you agree that there are few things in life as pure as the moment when we become one? How can that be a sin?"

Her hand moves up to play with his hair.

"My point is that religion has its faults. All religions do. But religion can also do a lot of good." She kisses the angle of his jaw. "That being said, I don't particularly want to stand up in front of a couple hundred people I don't know who will judge me for having a child out of wedlock. Not when my daughter is being baptized."

"But you want her to be baptized Catholic."

She breathes out deeply, clearly picking her words with care.

"Years ago, I solved a case in San Francisco - attempted murder of a priest. I still keep in contact with him." Teresa smiles. "He's agreed to perform a private baptism for Lizzie, and he's more than happy to make you her godfather as long as you agree to raise her Catholic should anything happen to me."

"It won't," he immediately says, and she rolls her eyes.

"Well, I'm counting on that," Teresa says. "But if it does, will you do your best?"

He nods. "I'll raise her Catholic," he promises.

Teresa gives him a sad smile. "Thank you." Then she leans into him. "Lizzie's very lucky."

His heart lightens. "Really?"

Teresa nods. "Really."

He can't help but squint his eyes at the force of his grin. "When will the baptism take place?" he manages eventually.

Teresa smiles. "What are you doing next weekend?"

* * *

The next week flies by in a flurry of open and closed cases: a homicide on the south side of town that they solve before the day is done, a suspected serial killer the day after, and a suspicious death on Thursday that ultimately proves to be a suicide. By the end of the week, the team doesn't even have fumes to run on, and Teresa sends them home an hour early.

"Good work, guys," she says in the bullpen. "Get some rest, okay?"

Patrick follows her to her office and grabs her jacket while she reaches for her purse. He holds it out for her, she slips her arms in, and he lifts her hair from under the collar.

"Can I spend the night?" he whispers after looking around to make sure no one is within earshot.

She gives him an exasperated look. "Patrick, I thought we were past the point where you had to ask."

"We are," he says, his voice low. "But sometimes I just - "

Her expression softens. "You're awfully insecure under that bravado you project to the world," she says, the exact same words she'd said to him in the hospital after she'd offered to bring him to Sacramento. She moves past him, her shoulder brushing his, but then she turns back. "Tell you what," she continues. "Why don't you bring a few suits over to my place tonight. I think I can scrounge up some spare hangers and closet space; you shouldn't have to live out of that overnight bag." She grins at his shock. "See you soon."

He just stands there, speechless, as she exits, and she doesn't see him lean against her desk for support as he composes himself.

* * *

On Sunday morning, he's sitting on a bench overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge when she calls.

"Hey," he says.

"Hi," she breathes. He can hear Lizzie babbling in the background. "I'm about to leave my condo - are you ready for me to pick you up?"

"About that," he says with a grin.

* * *

He meets her at a small, red brick church on the outskirts of San Francisco. As Mass has long since finished for the day, the parking lot is empty apart from his Citroen and her mustang; the priest isn't scheduled to arrive for another half hour.

Patricks greets Teresa with a kiss and walks around the car to grab Lizzie, who reaches for his hair as soon as she's in his arms.

"So," says Teresa, locking her car and joining him. "You had business in the city?"

"Yep," he says, all innocence.

She just stares him down. "What kind of business?"

He flashes her another smile. "You'll see."

* * *

The inside of the church is paradoxically lit, with numerous hanging light fixtures that don't do much to illuminate the main worship space. Rather, most of the light streams through stained glass windows - but even this is rather dark as the glass is mostly colored in blues and reds.

The room is near silent; Patrick is too aware of the sound of his scuffed shoes against the tile below. Teresa dips her hand in the holy water and crosses herself. Patrick swallows, and Teresa squeezes his elbow.

They move forward.

Teresa crosses herself once more as they reach the front of the church, half kneeling before slipping into the first row of pews. Patrick sits next to her, trying to relax the tension that seems to have spread into every muscle of his body. Lizzie smiles at him, and this helps.

He's silent for a few minutes as Teresa prays. Eventually, however, when she raises her eyes and looks over at him, he says, "I've never been in a church before."

"I'm glad you're here now," she murmurs.

"Me, too."

They sit in companionable silence for several more minutes before Teresa reaches into her blazer and withdraws a small object. When she opens her palm, he catches a glimpse of silver and realizes it's a patron saint medal.

"Eric and I actually met here," Teresa says, looking up at the front of the worship area. "At this church. He'd served in the Gulf War and was just starting out at technical college. He finished his associate's degree the same year I finished my bachelor's, and we decided to apply to the academy together. One of our first cases as SFPD uniforms was protecting Father Christopher when the threat to his life was made."

She looks down and turns over the medal.

"A father had lost his child. He was angry at God, and he wanted to take it out on Father Christopher. He almost did, too, but Eric and I got to him first." She holds up the medal. "Eric gave me this that night." She glances over at Patrick. "It's a St. Jude medal. He's the Patron Saint of the Chicago Police Department." She smiles fondly, wistfully. "And of lost causes. Eric thought it was appropriate."

Patrick swallows tightly.

"I've carried this medal around with me for a very long time," says Teresa, her voice thick. "It was in my pocket when I first met you - and for pretty much every moment we've spent together. It's deeply tied to my past - " She trails off and wipes her eyes. She takes a deep breath and soldiers on. "But now it also represents meeting you."

He inhales, deep and sharp.

"If I didn't have this medal," Teresa says, and another tear slides down her cheek, "I would never have met you." She smiles at this. "So, really, it doesn't just represent my past; it also represents my future." Her voice becomes rushed, as he's noticed it tends to do when she's nervous. "I don't expect you to carry it, but it is something I want to share with you - so it can represent us, and our future." She finally meets his eyes. "You, me, and Lizzie - our family."

He holds her gaze but can't manage any words, so he nods and bows his head, and she slips the chain around his neck. She tucks the medal beneath his shirt.

It comes to rest on his heart.

Teresa reaches up to brush a tear from his cheek.

"I, uh…" Patrick chuckles. "I kind of adore that you chose now to give me this because I...I also have something for you." He shifts Lizzie. "Can you reach into the left pocket of my jacket?"

Teresa's brow furrows, but she acquiesces, and she pulls out a gold cross necklace.

She freezes.

"I told you I had business in San Francisco," says Patrick. "Now you know what it was."

Hesitantly, Teresa begins to trace the outline of the cross with something akin to reverence. Then she flips it over, revealing the initials inscribed there decades ago.

 _TL_

One of her hands automatically reaches for her heart. He sees it shake.

Her lips part in awe; her eyes are overcome. " _How?_ "

"I looked through some old crime scene photos you were in, found the last time when the necklace appeared. I got information on the case, tracked your movements across San Francisco, and contacted pawn shops near the scene. Once you flash your CBI ID at people, they tend to give you whatever information you want, so the owner of the nearest pawn shop got me a name." He shrugs. "Pretty straightforward, as far as cases go."

Her hand tightens around the cross, and she closes her eyes and bows her head.

"Teresa?"

She looks over at him. "I'm okay," she says. "It's just - I remember praying for a miracle not long before I met you. Since you came into my life, I realized my prayers were answered in more ways than one."

He gestures for them to trade, and he hands over Lizzie so he can take the necklace. "I got the clasp fixed this morning," he says, and he brushes Teresa's hair aside, laying a hand on her neck. "This is my promise," he murmurs. "Just like this necklace, I'll always return to you."

Then he fastens the chain - and binds fast the promise.

* * *

He stays late at work that Monday tying up loose ends on a case and arrives at Teresa's well after the sun has died. He lets himself in with the key she'd given him that morning, not even bothering to take off his shoes before going in search of his family.

He moves an infant carrier out of the way as he walks to the stairs and smiles softly. He climbs them with an eagerness he'd never expected to feel.

The door at the end of the hallway is closed, and he heads toward it, navigating his way in the semi-darkness. He turns the handle and pushes open the door.

The window is open, and a slight breeze flutters in. Lizzie is already asleep in her crib, her mother in the reclining chair next to her. He watches them both inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Then he moves across the room and sits on the floor, his back against the base of the chair, and he rests his arm and his head on Teresa's lap. Her hand seems to move unconsciously to the nape of his neck.

The sound of Teresa's even breathing is hypnotic, and Patrick Jane lets himself succumb to its lullaby.

He closes his eyes.

* * *

 **More stories to come.**


End file.
